THE  THREE 
FURLONGERS 


SHEILA 
KAYE- SMITH 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 


With  out- 
stretched arms 
5he  rushed  to 
One  of  them 


THE  THREE 
FURLONGERS 


BY 

SHEILA  KAYE-SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF  "SPELL  LAND,"  "ISLE  OF  THORNS,"  ETC. 


There  may  be  hope  above. 
There  may  be  rest  beneath ; 
We  know  not — only  Death 

Is  palpable — and  love. 

— DOLBEN. 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914.  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPA.NY 


ISSUED  SEPTEMBER,   1014 


COPYRIGHT  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  UNDER  THE  TITLE 
"THREE  AGAINST  THE  WORLD" 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

AT  THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

THREE  AGAINST  THE  WORLD 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  SPARROW  HALL 9 

II.  SHOVELSTRODE  20 

III.  IN  THE  RAIN 31 

IV.  PATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT 40 

V.  THE  HERO 53 

VI.  THICK  WOODS 63 

VII.  OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE 75 

VIII.  BRAMBLETYE 86 

IX.  SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY — IN  DIFFERENT  WAYS.  .  97 
X.  TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER 109 

XI.    DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN 122 

XII.    CHILDREN  DANCING  IN  THE  DUSK 135 

XIII.  KEEPING  CHRISTMAS 145 

XIV.  WOODS  AT  DAWN 161 

XV.    THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS 173 

BOOK  II 
THE  WORLD  AGAINST  THE  THREE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.'  GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS 187 

II.  THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME 201 

III.  ONLY  A  BOY 213 

IV.  FLAMES 228 

V.  COWSANISH 237 

VI.  AND  I  ALSO  DREAMED 252 

VII.  WOODS  AT  NIGHT 259 

VIII.  VIGIL 268 

IX.  AND  You  ALSO  SAID 280 

X.  A  TOAST 30* 


BOOK  I 
THREE  AGAINST  THE  WORLD 


THE  THREE 
FURLONGERS 


CHAPTER  I 

SPARROW  HALL 

THE  twilight  was  dropping  over  the  fields  of 
three  counties — Surrey,  Kent  and  Sussex — all 
touching  in  the  woods  round  Sparrow  Hall.  In  the 
sky  above  and  in  the  fields  below  lights  were  creeping 
out  one  by  one.  The  Great  Wain  lit  up  over  Can- 
siron,  just  as  the  farmer's  wife  set  the  lamp  in  the 
window  of  Anstiel,  and  the  lights  of  Dorman's  Land 
were  like  a  reflection  of  the  Pleiades  above  them. 

Janet  Furlonger  sat  waiting  in  the  kitchen  of 
Sparrow  Hall — now  and  then  springing  up  to  lift 
the  lid  off  the  pot  and  smell  the  brown  soup,  or  to 
put  her  face  to  the  window-pane  and  watch  the 
creeping  night,  seen  dimly  through  the  thick  green 
glass  and  the  mists  that  steamed  up  from  the  fields 
of  Wilderwick. 

Janet  was  immensely  tall,  and  her  movements 
were  grand  and  free.  In  rest  she  had  a  kind  of 
statuesque  dignity:  she  did  not  stoop,  as  if  ashamed 
of  her  height,  but  held  herself  proudly,  with  lifted 
chin.  People  used  to  say  that  she  walked  as  if  she 
were  showing  off  beautiful  clothes.  This  was  meant 
to  be  a  joke,  for  Janet's  clothes  were  terrible — old, 

9 


10  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

and  badly  made.  Hats,  collars  and  waist-bands  she 
evidently  thought  superfluous;  it  was  also  fairly 
obvious  that  she  dispensed  with  stays — which  caused 
scandal,  not  because  her  figure  was  bad,  but  because 
it  was  too  good.  Wind,  sun  and  rain  had  tinted 
her  face  to  a  delicate  wood-nut  brown,  through  which 
the  red  glowed  timidly,  like  the  flush  on  a  spring 
catkin. 

Footsteps  sounded  on  the  frosty  road,  drawing 
steadily  nearer.  The  next  minute  the  gate  clicked. 
Janet  started  to  her  feet,  flung  open  the  kitchen 
door,  and  ran  out  into  the  garden,  between  rows  of 
chrysanthemums  still  faintly  sweet.  Two  men  were 
coming  up  the  path,  and  with  outstretched  arms  she 
rushed  to  one  of  them. 

"Nigel!— old  man!" 

He  did  not  speak,  but  folded  her  to  him,  bend- 
ing his  face  to  hers.  It  was  too  dark  for  them  to 
see  each  other  distinctly.  All  that  was  clear  was 
the  outline  of  the  roof  and  chimney  against  the 
still  tremulous  west. 

Janet  pulled  him  softly  up  the  path,  into  the 
doorway,  where  it  was  darker  still.  She  put  up  her 
hands  to  his  face  and  gently  felt  the  outlines  of  his 
features.  Then  she  began  to  laugh. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am !  Didn't  I  say  I  wasn't  going 
to  have  any  silly  sentimentality? — and  here  I  am, 
simply  wallowing  in  it.  Come  into  the  kitchen, 
young  men,  and  see  what  I've  got  for  the  satisfaction 
of  your  gross  appetites." 

They  followed  her  into  the  kitchen,  and  she  turned 
round  and  looked  at  them  both.  They  were  very 
different.  The  elder  brother,  Leonard,  was  like 


11 

Janet — dark  both  of  hair  and  eye,  with  a  healthy 
red  under  his  tan.  The  younger's  hair  was  between 
brown  and  auburn,  and  his  eyes  were  large  and  blue 
and  innocent  like  a  child's.  His  mouth  was  not  like 
a  child's — indeed,  there  was  a  peculiar  look  of  age 
in  its  drooping  corners,  and  his  teeth  flashed  sud- 
denly, almost  vindictively,  when  he  spoke;  it  was 
lucky  that  they  were  so  white  and  even,  for  he 
showed  them  with  every  movement  of  his  lips — two 
fierce,  shining  rows. 

"  You're  late,"  said  Janet.  "  No,  don't  look  at 
the  clock,  unless  you've  remembered  how  to  do  the 
old  sum.  It's  really  something  after  nine,  and  the 
train  is  supposed  to  get  in  at  half -past  seven." 

"  Yes — but  I  got  hung  up  at  Grinstead  station, 
playing  guardian  angel  to  a  kid." 

"  Let's  hope  the  kid  didn't  ask  to  see  your  wings," 
said  Leonard.  "  Was  it  a  girl-kid  or  a  boy-kid  ?  " 

"  A  girl-kid.  There  were  five  of  'em  in  my  car- 
riage. They'd  been  sent  home  from  school  for  some 
reason  or  other,  and  this  one  evidently  hadn't  let 
her  people  know,  for  when  she  got  out  at  East  Grin- 
stead  there  was  no  one  to  meet  her.  All  the  station 
cabs  had  been  snapped  up,  and  some  loathly  bounder 
got  hold  of  her — goodness  knows  what  would  have 
happened  if  I  hadn't  turned  up  and  managed  to 
scatter  him.  I  got  her  a  taxi  from  the  Dorset,  and 
sent  her  off  in  it  to  Shovelstrode." 

"  Shovelstrode ! — then  she  must  be  old  Strife's 
daughter.  What  age  was  she  ?  " 

"  I  should  put  her  down  at  sixteen,  but  very 
innocent." 

"  Pretty?  " 


12  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Ye— es." 

"  Nigel,  my  boy,  you  haven't  let  the  grass  grow 
under  your  feet." 

"  Idiot ! — we  never  exchanged  a  word  except  in 
the  way  of  business.  She  wanted  to  know  my  name, 
but  I  took  care  to  say  Smith.  There  was  nothing 
exciting  about  it  at  all — only  an  infernal  loss  of 
time." 

"  Quite  so.  You  didn't  find  me  in  a  particularly 
good  temper  when  you  turned  up  at  Hackenden." 

"  The  first  words  that  passed  between  us  were — 
'Is  that  you,  you  ass?'  and  'Yes,  you  fool.'  We 
haven't  done  the  thing  properly  at  all — we've  for- 
gotten to  fall  on  each  other's  necks." 

"  Let's  do  it  now,"  said  Len,  and  the  two  boys 
collapsed  into  a  mock  embrace,  in  the  grips  of  which 
they  staggered  up  and  down  the  kitchen,  knocking 
over  several  chairs. 

"  Oh,  stop,  you  duffers !  "  shouted  Janet ;  but  she 
was  laughing.  "  Nigel  hasn't  changed  a  bit,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  your  clothes  ?  " 
asked  Leonard,  as  his  brother  finally  hurled  him 
off.  "  They  stink,  lad,  they  stink." 

"  They've  been  fumigated,"  said  Nigel.  "  I've 
worn  off  some  of  the  reek  in  the  train,  but  to- 
morrow Janey  shall  peg  'em  out  to  air." 

"  We'll  hang  'em  across  the  road  from  the 
orchard.  Lord!  won't  the  Wilderwick  freaks  sit 
up!" 

"  It'll  take  ages  to  get  that  smell  out,"  said  Janet 
ruefully,  "  and  your  hair,  too,  Nigel — when'll  that 
look  decent  again  ?  " 


SPARROW  HALL  13 

"  I  say,  stop  your  personal  remarks,  you  two — 
and  give  me  something  to  eat.  I'm  all  one  aching 
void." 

Janet  took  the  soup  off  the  fire,  and  slopped  it 
into  three  blue  bowls.  Nigel  went  round  the  table, 
setting  straight  the  spoons  and  forks,  which  Janey 
seemed  to  have  flung  on  from  a  distance. 

"What's  that  for?"  she  asked. 

The  young  man  started,  then  flushed  slightly. 

"  Hullo !  I  didn't  notice  what  I  was  doing.  I 
always  had  to  do  that  in  prison." 

"  Put  things  straight? — what  a  good  idea!  " 

"  Yes.  Everything  had  to  be  straight — in  rows. 
Ugh!" 

For  the  first  time  he  looked  self-conscious. 

"  Well,  it's  a  very  good  habit  to  have  got  into. 
You  may  be  quite  useful  now." 

"  I'm  damned  if  I'd  have  done  it,"  said  Leonard. 

"You  had  to  do  it,"  said  Nigel;  "if  you 
didn't  .  .  ."  and  a  shudder  passed  over  him. 

"  What  ? "  asked  his  brother  and  sister  with 
interest. 

He  flushed  more  deeply,  and  the  muscles  of  his 
face  quivered. 

Then  a  surprising,  terrible  thing  happened — so 
surprising  and  so  terrible  that  Leonard  and  Janey 
could  only  stand  and  gape.  Nigel  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and  began  to  cry. 

For  some  moments  they  stared  at  him  with  blank, 
horror-stricken  eyes.  Scarcely  a  minute  ago  he 
had  been  uproarious — forgetting  pain  and  shame 
in  the  substantial  ecstasies  of  reunion,  smothering 
— after  the  Furlonger  habit — all  memories  of 


14  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

anguish  in  a  joke.  Never  since  his  earliest  manhood 
had  they  seen  him  cry,  not  even  on  the  day  they  had 
said  good-bye  to  him  for  so  long.  Now  he  was 
crying  miserably,  weakly,  hopelessly  —  crying 
quietly  like  a  child,  his  hands  covering  his  eyes, 
his  shoulders  shaking  a  little.  Then  suddenly  he 
gasped,  almost  whimpered — 

"  Don't  ask  me  those  questions.  Don't  ask  me 
any  more  questions." 

"  Nigel,"  cried  Janet,  finding  her  tongue  at  last, 
"  I'm  so  sorry.  I  didn't  know  you  minded.  Please 
don't  cry  any  more — it  hurts  us." 

"  We  didn't  mean  anything,  old  man,"  said 
Leonard  huskily.  "  Do  cheer  up,  and  forget  all 
about  it." 

Nigel  took  away  his  hands  from  his  eyes,  and 
Len  and  Janey  glanced  quickly  at  each  other. 
They  had  expected  to  see  his  face  swollen  and 
disfigured,  but  except  for  a  slight  redness  round 
the  eyes  it  was  quite  unchanged.  They  both  knew 
that  it  is  only  the  faces  of  those  who  cry  continually 
which  are  so  little  altered  by  tears. 

For  a  moment  they  could  not  speak.  A  chill 
seemed  to  have  dropped  on  Sparrow  Hall,  and  all 
three  heard  the  moaning  of  the  wind — as  it  swept 
up  to  the  windows,  rattled  them,  then  seemed  to 
hurry  away,  sighing  over  the  fields. 

"  Come,  drink  your  soup,  old  chap,"  said  Janet, 
pulling  up  his  chair  to  the  table.  "  Write  me 
down  an  ass,  a  tactless  ass,"  she  growled  to  her- 
self; "but  how  could  I  know  he  would  take  on 
that  way?" 

Nigel   obediently   began   to   swallow   the   soup, 


SPARROW  HALL  15 

while  Len  and  Janey  talked  across  him  with 
laboured  airiness  about  the  weather.  After  the 
soup  came  bacon  and  eggs,  and  potatoes  cooked 
in  their  skins.  Nigel's  spirits  began  to  rise — he 
seemed  childishly  delighted  with  the  food,  though 
Janet's  cooking  was  sketchy  in  the  extreme.  When 
the  meal  was  over,  he  joined  in  the  washing  up, 
which  was  done  at  a  sink  in  the  corner  of  the 
kitchen. 

"  What  sort  of  people  are  the  Lowes  ?  "  he  asked 
suddenly,  polishing  a  fork  with  a  vigour  and 
thoroughness  which  made  Leonard  and  Janey 
tremble  lest  he  should  realise  what  he  was  doing. 
"  What  sort  of  people  are  the  Lowes  ?  " 

Janet  flushed. 

"  Oh,  they're  quite  ordinary,"  said  Leonard, 
"  quite  ordinarily  unpleasant,  I  mean.  The  old 
chap's  narrow  and  pious,  like  most  devil-dodgers, 
and  the  young  'un's  like  an  ape." 

"And  they've  got  all  the  Kent  land?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  to  speak  of.  You  know  that 
end  was  always  too  low  for  wheat  " — poor  Len  was 
in  a  panic  lest  his  brother  should  begin  to  cry 
again. 

But,  strangely  enough,  Nigel  was  able  to  discuss 
the  fallen  fortunes  of  Sparrow  Hall  with  even  less 
emotion  than  Len  and  Janey.  The  tides  of  his 
grief  seemed  to  find  their  way  into  small  streams 
only.  It  was  about  the  side-issues  of  their  tragedy 
that  he  asked  most  questions.  Was  Leonard  still 
going  to  have  a  man  to  help  him,  now  his  brother 
had  returned? — Was  any  profit  likely  to  be  made 
in  their  reduced  circumstances? — Was  there  any 


16  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

chance  of  buying  back  what  they  had  sold  to 
Lowe? 

"  We  shall  have  to  go  quietly,"  said  Len,  "  but 
I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  pull  through  if  we're 
careful.  I've  given  Boorman  a  week's  notice.  He 
can  bump  round  here  till  it's  up,  and  lend  you  a 
hand  now  and  then — I  don't  suppose  you'll  tumble 
into  things  just  at  first." 

Nigel  suddenly  turned  away. 

"  I'm  going  out — to  have  a  look  round  the 
place." 

"Now!" 

"  Yes — it's  a  beautiful  clear  night." 

Janet  and  Leonard  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  I'm  going  alone,"  said  Nigel  shortly. 

Janet  and  Leonard  stood  still.  They  stared  at 
each  other,  at  first  with  surprise,  then  a  little 
forlornly,  while  their  brother  pulled  on  his  over- 
coat, and  went  out  of  the  room. 

Never,  since  they  could  remember,  had  one  of 
the  Furlongers  preferred  to  be  without  the  others. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  Janet  was  not  yet 
asleep.  She  lay  in  bed,  with  a  lighted  candle 
beside  her,  her  hair  tumbled  over  the  pillow  and 
over  her  body,  her  neck  gleaming  through  the 
heavy  strands. 

Her  room  was  full  of  warm  splashes  of  colour. 
The  bedspread  and  carpet,  though  faded,  glowed 
with  sudden  reds  and  gentle  browns — faded  red 
roses  were  on  the  wall.  The  window  was  low,  so 
that  when  she  turned  on  the  pillow  she  could  look 
straight  out  of  it  at  a  huddled  mass  of  woods.  It 


SPARROW  HALL  17 

was  uncurtained,  and  the  stars  flashed  through  the 
thick  panes. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  " — and  Nigel  came  in  softly. 

"  Hullo,  old  man." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Janey." 

"  And  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Come  and  sit  on 
the  bed." 

"  I — I  want  to  say  I'm  sorry  I  cried  this 
evening." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  gasped  Janet. 

"  It's  a  habit  one  gets  into  in  prison — crying 
about  little  things.  Prison  is  made  up  of  little 
things  and  crying  about  'em — that's  why  it's  so 
hellish." 

Her  hand  groped  on  the  coverlet  for  his. 

"I. expect  I'll  get  out  of  it — crying,  I  mean — 
now  I'm  back." 

"  Don't  let  it  worry  you,  old  boy — we're  pals, 
you  and  Len  and  I.  But — but — don't  you  really 
like  us  talking  to  you  about  prison  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  head  quickly. 

"  It  all  depends." 

"  You  see,  there  you  were  ragging  and  laughing 
about  your  clothes  and  your  hair  and  all  that.  So 
how  was  I  to  know  you'd  mind " 

"  But  it's  different.  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  you'll 
understand — but  it's  different.  Having  one's 
clothes  fumigated  and  one's  hair  cut  short  is  a 
joke — it's  funny,  it's  a  joke,  so  I  laughed.  But 
being  obliged  to  have  everything  exactly  straight 

— every  damned  fork  in  its  damned  place "  he 

stopped  suddenly  and  ground  his  teeth.  "  It's  the 
2 


18  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

little  things  that  are  so  infernal  and  degrading; 
big  things  one  has  to  make  oneself  big  to  tackle, 
somehow,  and  it  helps.  But  the  little  things  .  .  . 
one  just  cries.  Listen,  Janey.  Once  a  fortnight 
they  used  to  come  and  search  us  in  our  cells.  We 
used  to  stand  there  just  in  our  vests  and  drawers, 
and  they'd  pass  their  hands  over  us.  Well,  I 
could  stand  that,  for  it  was  horrible — sickening 
and  monstrous  and  horrible.  But  when  you  were 
punished  just  because  your  tins  weren't  in  the 
exact  mathematical  space  allotted  to  them — it 
wasn't  horrible  or  monstrous  at  all,  just  childish 
and  silly;  and  when  a  dozen  childish  and  silly 
things  crowd  into  your  day,  why,  you  become 
childish  and  silly  yourself,  that's  all.  What  I  can't 
forgive  prison  isn't  that  it's  made  me  hard  or 
wicked  or  wretched,  but  that  it's  made  me  childish 
and  silly — so  if  I  deserved  hanging  when  I  went 
in,  I'm  hardly  worth  spanking  now  I've  come 
out." 

"  What  I  can't  forgive  prison  is  the  miserable 
ideas  you've  picked  up  in  it." 

"  There  aren't  any  ideas  in  prison — only  habits." 

He  hid  his  face  for  a  minute  in  the  coverlet. 
Janet's  hand  crept  over  his  hair. 

"  You'll  soon  be  happy  again,  old  boy,"  she 
whispered. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

"  I  hope  to  God  you  will — and  now,  dear,  it's 
dreadfully  late,  and  you're  tired.  Hadn't  you 
better  go  to  bed  ?  " 

He  turned  to  her  impulsively. 

"  You'll  stick  to  me,  you  and  Len  ? — whatever 


SPARROW  HALL  19 

I'm  like — even — even  if  I'm  not  quite  the  same  as 
I  used  to  be." 

Strange  to  say,  her  impression  of  him  was  of 
an  infinite  childishness.  She  realised  with  a  pang 
that  while  for  the  last  three  years  she  and  Leonard 
had  been  growing  older  in  their  contact  with  a 
world  of  love  and  sorrow,  this  boy,  in  spite  of  all 
he  had  suffered,  had  merely  been  shut  up  with  a 
few  rules  and  habits.  In  many  ways  he  was 
younger  than  when  he  first  went  to  gaol,  more 
ignorant  and  more  childish — he  had  lost  his  grip 
of  life.  In  other  ways  he  was  terribly,  horribly 
older. 

She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissed 
this  pathetic  old  child,  this  poor  childish  old  man. 


CHAPTER  II 

SHOVELSTRODE 

A  ROW  of  lights  gleamed  from  Shovelstrode 
Manor,  on  the  north  slope  of  Ashdown  Forest. 
Shovelstrode  was  in  Sussex,  and  looked  straight 
over  the  woods  into  Surrey  and  Kent.  Round 
it  the  pines  heaped  up  till  they  gave  a  ragged  edge 
to  the  hill  behind  it.  Into  the  house  they  cast 
many  shadows,  and  even  when  at  night  they  were 
curtained  out  of  the  lighted  rooms,  one  could  hear 
them  rustling  and  thrumming  a  strange  tune. 

Tony  Strife  crept  up  the  back  stairs  to  the 
schoolroom.  She  paused  for  a  moment  and 
listened  to  a  distant  buzz  of  voices.  Her  mother 
must  be  having  visitors,  so  she  would  not  go 
near  her — she  would  sit  in  the  schoolroom  till  it 
was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Tony  was  sixteen, 
healthy  and  clean-limbed,  with  a  thick  mouse- 
coloured  plait  between  her  shoulders.  She  wore 
a  school-girl's  blouse  and  skirt,  with  a  tie  of  her 
school  cricket-colours.  She  had  in  her  manner  all 
the  mixture  of  confidence  and  deference  which 
points  to  one  who  is  paramount  in  her  own  little 
world,  but  is  for  some  reason  cast  adrift  in  another 
where  she  has  never  been  more  than  subordinate. 

The  schoolroom  was  in  darkness.  The  fire  was 
unlighted  and  the  blind.s  were  up,  so  that  the 
shadows  of  the  pines  rushed  over  the  square  of 
moonlight  on  the  floor,  waving  and  gliding  and 
curtseying  in  the  wind.  Tony,  who  had  expected 

20 


SHOVELSTRODE  21 

drawn  blinds  and  a  cosy  fireside,  was  a  little 
dismayed  at  the  dreariness  of  her  kingdom.  "  I 
wonder  if  they  got  my  postcard,"  she  thought 
forlornly.  But  the  schoolroom  was  the  school- 
room, with  or  without  a  fire,  and  her  own  special 
province  now  that  Awdrey  had  grown  up,  and 
exchanged  its  austere  boundaries  for  a  world  of 
calls  and  dances  and  chiffons  and  flirtations.  It 
was  a  little  bit  of  the  glorious  land  of  school  from 
which  she  had  been  so  abruptly  exiled.  For  the 
first  time  since  her  return  a  certain  warmth  glowed 
in  her  heart — she  sat  down  on  the  window-sill  and 
looked  out  at  the  pines. 

She  wondered  how  soon  she  would  be  able  to 
go  back  to  school.  Perhaps  there  would  be  no 
more  cases,  and  the  dear,  all-sufficient  life  would 
start  again  at  the  half-term.  Meantime  she  would 
write  every  week  to  her  three  best  friends  and 
the  mistress  she  "  had  a  rave  on,"  she  would  work 
up  her  algebra  and  perhaps  get  her  remove  into 
the  sixth  next  term;  and  she  would  finish  that 
beastly  nightgown  she  had  been  struggling  with 
ever  since  Easter,  and  be  able  to  start  a  frock,  like 
the  rest  of  the  form. 

Her  calculations  were  interrupted  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps  in  the  passage  and  a  rather  strident 
voice  calling — 

"Tony!    Tony!" 

The  next  minute  the  door  flew  open,  and  a  girl 
a  few  years  older  than  herself  burst  in. 

"  Hullo ! — rso  you  are  home !  I  saw  your  box 
in  the  hall,  and  swore  you  must  have  come  back 
for  some  reason  or  other;  but  of  course  mother 


22  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

wouldn't  believe  me.  What  on  earth  have  you 
come  for?  " 

"  They've  got  whooping-cough  at  school,  and 
Mrs.  Arkwright  sent  us  all  home.  Didn't  mother 
get  my  postcard?  " 

"  Postcard !  of  course  not.  We'd  no  idea  you 
were  coming,  and  your  room  isn't  ready  for  you, 
or  anything.  You  ought  to  have  known  better 
than  to  send  only  a  card — they  get  kept  back  for 
days  sometimes.  And  when  you  arrived,  why 
didn't  you  come  into  the  drawing-room  and  see 
mother,  instead  of  sneaking  up  here?  " 

"  I  thought  you  had  visitors — I  could  hear  them 
talking.  I  meant  to  come  down  after  I'd  changed." 

"  I  see.  Well,  you'd  better  come  now  and  speak 
to  mother.  She's  quite  worried  about  your  being 
here,  or  rather  about  my  saying  you're  here  when 
she  says  you  aren't." 

"  Right-O ! "  and  Tony  followed  her  sister  out 
of  the  room. 

In  a  way  Awdrey  was  like  her,  but  with  a  more 
piquant,  impertinent  cast  of  features.  She  was 
dressed  in  the  latest  combination  of  fashion  and 
sport,  with  a  very  short  skirt  to  display  her  pretty 
ankles  and  purple  silk  stockings.  She  was  strongly 
scented  with  some  pleasant,  flower-like  scent, 
which,  however,  made  Tony  wrinkle  up  her  nose 
with  disgust. 

"  You  were  quite  right  about  there  being 
visitors,"  said  the  elder  girl  in  a  more  friendly 
tone.  "  Captain  le  Bourbourg  was  here,  and  as  only 
mother  and  I  were  in,  I  went  with  him  to  the  door — 
complications,  of  course !  " 


SHOVELSTRODE  23 

"  Ass,"  said  Tony  shortly. 

Awdrey  giggled,  apparently  without  resentment, 
and  the  next  minute  they  were  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

The  drawing-room  at  Shovelstrode  was  an 
emasculate  room,  plunged  deep  in  yellow  and  dull 
green.  The  furniture  had  a  certain  ineffectiveness 
about  it,  in  spite  of  its  beauty.  The  only  thing 
which  was  neither  delicate  nor  indefinite  was  the 
heavily  beamed  ceiling,  reflecting  the  firelight. 
The  girls'  mother  lay  on  a  sofa  between  the  fire 
and  the  half-curtained  window,  just  where  she 
could  see  the  moon.  She  wore  a  yellow  silk 
wrapper,  and  on  her  breast  lay  dull,  strangely  set 
stones.  She  was  reading  a  little  book  of  un- 
orthodox mysticism,  and  others,  in  floppy  suede 
bindings,  were  on  the  table  beside  her. 

"  Why,  Antoinette!  "  she  cried.  "  Whatever  are 
you  here  for,  child  ?  " 

"  They  had  whooping-cough  at  school,"  said 
Awdrey  glibly,  "  and  sent  her  home — and  the  silly 
idiot  wrote  and  told  us  on  a  postcard,  which  we'll 
probably  get  some  time  next  week." 

Lady  Strife  sighed. 

"  It's  very  disturbing,  my  dear,  very  disturbing 
— for  me,  that's  to  say.  And  as  for  your  father, 
I  expect  he'll  be  furious.  He  hates  things  happen- 
ing in  a  disorderly  way  and  people  being  in  the 
wrong  place." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Tony,  "  but  I'll  work  all  the 
time  I'm  here,  so  I  really  shan't  lose  anything 
by  it." 

"  Well,  it's  not  your  fault,  of  course,"  rather 


24  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

doubtfully.  "  Come  and  give  me  a  kiss,"  she 
added,  realising  that  the  ceremony  had  been 
omitted. 

"  How  are  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  about  the  same,  thank  you.  Weak  of 
body,  but  not,  I  trust,  weak  of  soul.  I  am  wonder- 
fully comforted  by  this  little  book  of  Sakrata 
Balkrishna's.  Our  soul,  he  says,  Tony,  sits  within 
us  as  a  watcher,  holding  aloof  from  the  poor, 
suffering  body,  and  weaving  a  new  mantle  of  flesh 
for  its  next  Manvantara." 

"Buddhism?  .  .  ."  asked  Tony  awkwardly. 

"Buddhism!  My  dear  child — as  if  I  would 
have  anything  to  do  with  that  modern  corruption 
of  pure  Brahminical  faith !  No,  Antoinette,  this  is 
the  ancient  Vedantin  philosophy,  as  old  as  the  world. 
By  the  way,  has  your  box  come  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  brought  it  with  me  in  the  taxi." 

"  The  taxi !  You  were  lucky  to  find  one  at  the 
station." 

"  I  didn't  find  it.  A  man  got  it  for  me  from  the 
Dorset  Arms." 

"  A  man !  "  cried  Awdrey. 

"  Yes,  quite  an  ordinary  sort  of  man,  but  rather 
decent." 

"  I  wonder  who  he  was.    How  romantic,  Tony !  " 

"  Rats !  It  wasn't  in  the  least  romantic.  When 
I  got  out  of  the  station  I  found  the  car  wasn't 
there  to  meet  me,  and  all  the  cabs  were  gone,  and 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Then  rather  a  nasty- 
looking  man  came  along,  and  asked  me  what  was 
the  matter,  and  when  I  told  him,  he  said  I'd  better 
spend  the  night  in  East  Grinstead  as  it  was  so  late, 


SHOVELSTRODE  25 

and  he  knew  of  a  very  nice  place  I  could  go  to. 
I  didn't  like  to  refuse,  as  he  seemed  so  polite  and 
interested,  but  of  course  I  wanted  to  come  here,  and 
I  was  awfully  glad  when  another  man  came  and 
said  he  could  get  me  a  cab  quite  easily.  The  first 
man  didn't  seem  to  like  it,  though — perhaps  he  had 
some  poor  relation  who  let  lodgings." 

"  Tony ! '  cried  her  sister.  "  You  really  mustn't 
go  about  alone.  You're  much  too  innocent." 

"  My  darling  child,"  wailed  her  mother,  "  my 
dove  unsoiled  by  knowledge !  " 

Tony  looked  surprised,  but  her  answer  was 
checked  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall. 

"Girls,  there's  your  father!"  cried  Lady  Strife. 
"  Now,  Tony,  you  will  have  to  explain.  And 
remember  I  hate  a  scene — it  clogs  my  soul  with 
matter." 

"  Right-O,  mother !  "  and  Tony  hurried  out  into 
the  passage. 

Here  she  managed  to  get  through  the  "  scene," 
such  as  it  was.  Sir  Gambier  Strife  was  a  man  to 
whom  time  and  place  were  all-important,  and  as 
the  time  of  Term  was  inevitably  linked  with  the 
place  of  School,  he  felt  justly  indignant  at  the 
separation  of  the  two.  "  Whooping-cough !  People 
were  such  milksops  nowadays.  When  he  was  a 
boy  the  sooner  one  got  whooping-cough  the  more 
one's  relations  were  pleased.  How  old  was  Tony? 
Sixteen  ?  Then  the  sooner  she  had  whooping-cough 
the  better." 

This,  however,  was  all  said  in  rather  a  low  voice, 
Sir  Gambier  realising  as  much  as  any  one  the 


26  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

importance  of  not  clogging  his  wife's  soul  with 
matter. 

By  the  time  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  he  was 
talking  of  other  things. 

"  I  was  down  at  Wilderwick  this  evening — you 
know  that  place  at  the  bottom  of  Wilderwick  hill, 
where  the  Furlongers  live  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Sparrow  Hall." 

"  That's  it.  Well,  this  evening  there  was  a  flag 
tied  to  the  chimney.  I  asked  old  Carter  what  it 
was  all  about,  and  he  said  they're  expecting  the 
other  brother  home — the  one  that's  been  in  gaol  for 
the  last  three  years." 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  the  Furlongers," 
said  Awdrey,  "  they've  been  lying  low  for  the  last 
few  months,  and  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  the 
one  who's  been  in  gaol." 

"  I  saw  him  three  years  ago,  just  after  we  came 
here.  He  was  swaggering  about  the  Kent  end  of 
their  land  with  his  gun.  He  won't  do  much 
swaggering  there  in  future.  By  Jove!  it  must 
have  hit  'em  hard  to  sell  that  property  to  old 
Lowe." 

"  They've  only  got  a  poky  little  farm  now.  But, 
father,  do  tell  us  what  he's  like,  that  youngest 
Furlonger — he  sounds  interesting." 

"  Oh,  he  wasn't  much  to  look  at — a  great  strong 
fellow,  for  ever  showing  his  teeth.  But  I've  been 
told  he's  got  brains,  plenty  of  'em,  wouldn't  have 
landed  himself  in  prison  if  he  hadn't." 

"  When  is  he  coming  out?  " 

"  They  were  expecting  him  this  evening,  I 
believe.  Hullo !  what's  the  matter  ?  " 


SHOVELSTRODE  27 

"  Oh,  it's  suddenly  struck  me,"  cried  Awdrey. 
"  Perhaps  he  was  Tony's  man." 

"  Tony's  man ! — what  d'you  mean  ?  " 

Awdrey  poured  forth  the  story  of  her  sister's 
adventure.  "  She  said  he  was  an  awful-looking 
man,  and  goodness  knows  where  he'd  have  landed 
her  if  the  other  man  hadn't  turned  up  and  scared 
him  away.  I'm  sure  he  must  have  been  Furlonger, 
it  isn't  likely  there'd  be  two  scoundrels  like  that 
about." 

Sir  Gambier  turned  red. 

"  I  won't  have  you  girls  mixed  up  in  such 
things." 

"  She  didn't  want  to  be  mixed  up  in  it,"  inter- 
rupted Awdrey,  "  it  wasn't  her  fault.  But  it's  lucky 
the  other  man  turned  up.  You  don't  know  who  he 
was,  I  suppose,  Tony  ?  " 

"  He  said  his  name  was  Smith." 

"  That  doesn't  help  us  much.  But,  by  Jove !  how 
Furlonger  must  hate  him !  " 

"  We  don't  know  he  was  Furlonger." 

"  He  must  have  been;  it's  just  the  thing  a  ticket^ 
of-leave  convict  would  do — try  to  victimise  an 
innocent-looking  girl." 

"  I'm  not  innocent-looking ! "  cried  Tony  in- 
dignantly. 

"  Well,  I  shan't  argue  the  point  with  you.  You 
must  have  looked  pretty  green  for  him  to  have  said 
what  he  did.  By  the  way,  what  was  Furlonger 
locked  up  for,  father  ?  " 

"  Something  to  do  with  the  Wickham  Rubber 
Companies.  Farming  wasn't  good  enough  for 
him,  so  he  took  to  finance — with  the  result  that  the 


28  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

whole  family  was  ruined;  had  to  sell  all  their  land, 
except  a  few  inches  round  the  house — and  the 
young  man  got  three  years  in  gaol  into  the 
bargain." 

"  Wickham  got  ten — so  Furlonger  can't  be  as  bad 
as  Wickham." 

"  He's  a  rotten  scoundrel,  I  tell  you.  Diddled 
thousands  of  respectable  people  out  of  their  money. 
Then  put  up  the  most  brazen  defence— said  that  at 
the  beginning  he  had  no  idea  of  the  unsoundness 
of  the  scheme;  *  at  the  beginning,'  mark  you — con- 
fesses quite  coolly  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fraud  before 
the  end." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  rather  sporting  of  him,"  said 
Awdrey. 

"  He  may  have  a  beautiful  soul,"  murmured 
Lady  Strife;  "why  do  people  always  look  at 
actions  rather  than  motives?  Poor  young  Fur- 
longer  may  have  sinned  more  divinely  than  many 
pray.  It's  motive  that  makes  all  the  difference. 
Motive  may  make  the  robbing  of  a  till  a  far  finer 
action  than  the  endowing  of  a  church." 

"  Tut,  tut,  my  dear !  What  a  thought  to  put 
into  the  girls'  heads.  Besides,  it  isn't  as  if  the  only 
thing  against  the  Furlongers  was  that  one  of  'em's 
been  in  gaol.  They're  the  most  disreputable  lot  I 
ever  met,  don't  care  twopence  for  any  one's 
good  opinion." 

"  They're  quite  well  connected  really,  aren't 
they?  "  said  Awdrey. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  Their  mother  was 
a  daughter  of  Lord  Woodshire's,  and  I  believe  their 
father  had  rather  a  fine  place  near  Chichester.  But 


SHOVELSTRODE  29 

he  went  to  the  bad — ahem!  shocking  story — died 
in  Paris — tut,  tut! — the  children  were  left  to  shift 
for  themselves,  and  bought  Sparrow  Hall  with  their 
mother's  money — all  the  Chichester  estate  was 
chucked  away  by  old  Furlonger." 

"  I  think  they  sound  rather  interesting.  It's  a 
pity  the  youngest  should  have  embarked  on  the  white 
slave  traffic." 

"  White  slave  traffic ! — hush,  my  dear.  Young 
girls  don't  talk  about  such  things." 

"  No — they  get  mixed  up  in  'em  instead.  Tony, 
I  hope  you'll  meet  your  Mr.  Smith  again." 

"  He's  not  my  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Tony  hotly. 

"  Oh,  it's  impossible  to  talk  to  any  one  ration- 
ally to-night !  Father's  started  on  '  young  girls,' 
and  Tony's  trying  to  make  out  she  was  born  yester- 
day." She  seized  her  sister  by  the  arm.  "  Come 
upstairs  and  dress  for  dinner." 

Tony  was  only  too  glad  to  escape,  and  they  went 
up  to  widely  different  rooms. 

Awdrey's  was  furnished  with  a  telling  combina- 
tion of  coquetry  and  sport.  Silver  toilet  articles 
and  embroidered  cushions  contrasted  with  her 
hunting-crop  over  the  mantelpiece,  her  tennis 
racket  on  the  wall.  What  struck  one  most,  how- 
ever, was  the  number  of  men's  photographs  which 
crowded  the  place.  From  frames  of  every  con- 
ceivable fabric  they  stared  with  bold,  glassy  eyes. 
Awdrey  smiled  at  them  lovingly,  as  they  woke  either 
memory  or  emotion.  She  had  once  said  that  the 
male  sex  was  roughly  divisible  into  two  groups — 
G.P.'s  and  H.P.'s — Grand  Passions  and  Hideous 


30  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Pasts.  Tony  gave  them  a  scornful  glance  as  she 
passed  the  door. 

Her  own  room  was  austere  and  white.  An  in- 
definable coolness  haunted  its  empty  corners  and 
clear  spaces.  There  were  no  photographs,  as  she 
had  not  yet  unpacked  the  photographs  of  her  girl 
friends  which  usually  adorned  the  mantelpiece. 
There  were  only  three  pictures — a  Memling 
Madonna,  Holbein's  Portrait  of  a  Young  Woman, 
and  Watts'  Sir  Galahad,  beloved  of  schoolgirls. 

Tony  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  began  to  unplait 
her  hair. 

"  What  a  fool  Awdrey  is,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self, "  always  thinking  of  love,  and  all  that  rot." 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  THE  RAIN 

FROM  Nigel's  bed  as  well  as  Janey's  one  could 
see  woods,  and  in  summer  he  had  often  lain  listen- 
ing to  the  night- jar  in  them — that  mysterious 
whirring,  dull  and  restless,  as  if  ghosts  were 
spinning. 

That  night  all  was  windless  silence,  and  there 
was  no  motion  in  the  dark  patch  of  window-view, 
except  the  flashing  of  the  stars.  Towards  morning 
a  delicious  sense  of  cold  stole  over  Nigel's  sleep. 
Soft  airs  seemed  to  be  baffing  him,  rippling  round 
him,  and  there  seemed  to  be  water — water  and 
wind.  Then  suddenly  a  bell  rang  in  his  brain.  The 
dream  collapsed,  pulverised.  He  sprang  up  in  bed, 
then  scrambled  out — then  opened  his  eyes,  to  see 
himself  still  surrounded  by  his  dream. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  Parkhurst  bell  had 
rung  in  his  head  just  as  it  had  rung  at  that  hour 
for  hundreds  of  mornings.  But  he  was  not  at 
Parkhurst,  he  was  still  in  his  dream — water  and 
wind.  Against  the  horizon  stretched  a  long  dim 
line  of  woods,  and  above  them  the  sky  was  lucent 
with  the  first  hope  of  dawn.  Into  the  fields 
splashed  a  gentle  rain,  and  in  at  his  window  blew 
the  west  wind,  soft,  damp  and  cold. 

For  the  first  time  Nigel  realised  that  he  was  home, 
and  that  he  was  free. 

31 


32  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Yesterday  had  all  been  so  strange,  he  had  not 
had  time  to  think  of  things.  After  years  of  con- 
finement and  discipline  it  had  been  a  terrifying 
ordeal  to  walk  through  the  crowded  streets  of  a 
town  and  take  a  long  train  journey,  involving 
several  changes.  He  had  wished  then  that  he 
had  allowed  Len  to  come  and  meet  him  at  Park- 
hurst — the  dull  fears  that  had  made  him  insist  on 
his  brother  coming  no  nearer  than  East  Grinstead 
had  seemed  nothing  to  this  terror  of  carts  and 
horses  and  motors  and  trams  and  trains,  these  con- 
stantly shifting  faces  and  strident  voices,  this  hurry, 
this  disorder,  this  horrible  respect  of  people  who 
called  him  "  Sir,"  and  said  "  I  beg  your  pardon," 
if  they  fell  over  his  big  feet. 

When  he  came  to  Sparrow  Hall,  it  had  been 
worse  still — not  at  first,  but  afterwards,  when  Janet 
and  Leonard  had  said  all  those  terrible  things  to 
him,  and  hurt  him  so.  They  had  hurt  him,  and  he 
had  frightened  them,  and  it  had  all  been  miserable. 

But  this  morning  everything  had  changed.  He 
no  longer  felt  terrified  of  his  independence  or  of 
what  his  brother  and  sister  might  say.  His  heart 
was  warm  and  happy — his  lungs  were  full  of  the 
sweet  moist  morning  air. 

He  crossed  the  room.  It  was  ecstasy  to  feel 
that  no  one  was  watching  him,  that  there  was  no 
ugly  observation  hole  in  the  door.  Why,  privacy 
was  as  sweet  as  independence,  and  not  nearly  so 
startling.  He  pulled  off  his  sleeping-suit,  and  stood 
naked  by  the  bed.  For  the  first  time  in  three  years 
he  felt  the  pride  of  his  young  manhood,  the  splen- 
dour of  his  body.  The  lust  of  life  frothed  up  in  his 


IN  THE  RAIN  83 

heart.  The  dawn,  his  strong  bare  limbs,  the  rain, 
plunged  him  into  a  rapture  of  thanksgiving.  He 
was  home,  and  he  was  free. 

He  knelt  down  by  the  window,  the  rain  spatter- 
ing softly  on  him,  and  stared  out  at  the  woods 
— Ashplats  Wood  and  Hackenden  Wood  and 
Summer  Wood,  with  Swites  Wood  in  the  west. 
The  woods,  the  dear  brown  wind-rocked  woods! — 
he  would  walk  in  them  that  morning,  there  was 
on  one  to  hinder  him — he  was  home,  and  he  was 
free  among  the  woods. 

He  rose  lightly,  and  began  to  dress.  He  put 
on  old  rough  clothes  that  he  had  worn  before  he 
went  to  prison.  They  had  been  old  then,  and  now 
they  were  positively  disreputable,  for  Janet  had 
folded  them  away  carelessly,  so  that  they  had 
creased  and  frayed.  But  he  loved  them,  they 
seemed  even  now  to  smell  of  the  cows  he  had  milked 
and  the  soft  loam  of  the  fields. 

He  ran  downstairs  whistling — some  music-hall 
song  that  had  been  popular  three  years  ago,  but 
was  long  forgotten  now.  To  Leonard  in  the  yard 
and  Janet  in  the  dairy  he  sounded  like  a  cheerful 
ghost.  They  both  thought  of  going  to  meet  him,  but 
both  at  last  decided  to  leave  him  alone. 

The  house  was  full  of  the  delicious  smell  of 
rain,  and  the  wind  crooned  through  it  tenderly, 
rattling  the  doors  and  windows,  and  fluttering  the 
untidy  rags  of  wall-paper  that  here  and  there  hung 
loose  on  the  walls.  Nigel  went  into  the  kitchen, 
where  the  fire  was  burning.  He  sat  down  by  it  and 
warmed  his  hands,  though  he  was  not  really  cold. 
He  had  not  seen  a  fire  for  three  years. 
3 


34  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Then  suddenly  he  noticed  something  in  the 
corner — it  was  his  fiddle-case,  wrapped  in  green 
baize.  Nigel  had  always  passed  for  something  of 
a  musician,  and  during  a  few  stormy  years  spent 
in  London  with  his  father  had  been  fairly  well 
taught.  Farming  and  scheming  had  never  made 
him  forget  his  fiddle,  though  occasionally  it  had 
lain  for  weeks  as  it  lay  now,  wrapped  up  in  dusty 
cloths  in  the  corner. 

He  stooped  down  and  took  it  out  of  its  many 
covers.  It  was  a  fairly  good  instrument  of  modern 
make,  best  in  its  low  tones.  All  the  strings  were 
broken  except  the  G,  but  he  found  a  coil  of  the  D 
in  the  case,  and  screwed  it  on.  By  means  of 
harmonics  and  the  seventh  position  he  could  manage 
fairly  well  with  two  strings. 

It  seemed  a  terribly  long  time  since  he  had  felt 
a  fiddle  under  his  chin,  and  sniffed  its  peculiar 
smell  of  sweet  varnished  wood  and  rosin.  He 
lifted  his  arm  slowly,  and  the  bow  dropped  on  the 
strings.  It  was  scratchy,  and  he  felt  horribly  stiff, 
but  in  course  of  time  matters  improved  a  little, 
and  Len  and  Janey,  together  in  the  Dutch  barn, 
smiled  at  each  other  as  the  strains  of  Hamdel's 
"  Largo  "  drifted  out  to  them. 

"  He'll  feel  better  now,"  said  Leonard. 

Nigel  forgot  the  "  Largo  "  in  the  middle,  and 
started  "  O  Caro  Nome,"  from  Rigoletto.  His  taste 
in  music  had  always  been  the  despair  of  his  teachers. 
He  had  never  seemed  able  to  appreciate  the  modern 
school,  or,  indeed,  the  more  advanced  of  the 
ancients.  He  had  a  desperate  fondness  for  Balfe 
and  Donizetti,  for  the  most  sugary  moods  of  Verdi 


IN  THE  RAIN  35 

and  Gounod.  He  revelled  in  high  notes,  trills 
and  tremolo — "  O  Caro  Nome  "  and  "  I  dreamt  that 
I  dwelt  in  marble  halls  "  appealed  to  a  side  of 
him  which  was  definitely  sentimental.  He  stood 
there  by  the  window,  swaying  sentimentally  from 
side  to  side,  shaking  shrill  colorature  from  his 
violin,  regardless  of  the  squeaking  of  a  nearly 
rosinless  bow. 

What  appealed  to  Nigel  was  never  the  technique 
of  a  composition,  but  its  emotional  quality.  Music 
was  to  him  not  so  much  sound  as  feeling — he  did 
not  value  a  piece  for  its  own  intrinsic  beauty,  but 
for  the  emotions  it  was  able  to  call  forth.  As  he 
played  that  morning  whole  cycles  of  experience 
passed  before  him.  All  the  old  dreams  that  for 
three  years  had  lain  dead  in  his  violin  now  revived 
— but  a  new  quality  was  added  to  them,  a  soft 
twang  of  sorrow.  Before  his  imprisonment  his 
dreams  had  been  winged  and  shod  with  fire,  wild 
things  compounded  of  desire  and  endeavour,  tender 
only  in  their  background  of  the  seasons'  moods, 
rain  and  sunshine  and  wind  and  shadows  and 
stars.  But  to-day  longing  took  in  them  the  place 
of  endeavour,  and  all  their  desire  was  for  forget- 
fulness.  Stars  and  rain  were  in  them  still,  but  the 
stars  and  rain  of  the  new  heavens  and  the  new 
earth  which  suffering  had  created — the  rain  which 
is  tears,  and  the  stars  which  spring  from  the  dumb 
desire  of  sorrow  brooding  over  the  formless  deep 
of  its  own  immensity — "  Let  there  be  light."  And 
there  was  light — one  or  two  faint  dream-like  con- 
stellations, burning  over  and  reflected  in  the  swirl- 
ing waters  of  the  abyss.  ...  A  great  wind  passed 


36  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

over  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  parted  them,  and 
out  of  them  rose  a  little  island  for  a  man  to  stand 
upon — so  the  dry  land  came  out  of  the  water.  And 
the  suffering  man  can  stand  on  the  island,  where 
there  is  just  room  for  his  feet,  and  he  can  see  the 
stars  above  him — and  when  he  is  too  weary  to  lift 
his  head  he  sees  them  reflected  in  the  surging 
waters  beneath.  .  .  . 

Nigel  dropped  his  violin,  and  looked  out  with 
dream-filled  eyes  at  the  fields,  seen  dimly  through 
the  rain-drops  dripping  from  the  eaves.  In  the 
front  garden  stood  a  little  girl — a  little  dirty  girl 
with  a  milk-can. 

"Hullo!  "said  Nigel. 

He  felt  an  unaccountable  desire  to  talk  to  this 
child;  not  because  he  liked  her  particularly — 
indeed,  she  was  rather  an  unattractive  object — but 
because  he  realised  suddenly  that  he  was  very  fond 
of  children.  He  had  never  known  it  before,  never 
imagined  that  he  cared  about  kids;  but,  whether 
it  was  his  long  exile  in  prison  he  could  not  tell,  he 
felt  quite  overwhelmed  this  morning  by  his  love 
for  them,  and  realised  that  he  absolutely  must  make 
friends  with  the  highly  unfavourable  specimen 
before  him. 

"Hullo!"  he  repeated. 

The  maiden  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"  Have  you  come  for  the  milk?  "  he  asked  con- 
versationally. 

She  nodded.    Then  she  pointed  to  his  violin. 

"  Did  the  noise  come  out  of  that  box?  " 

"  Yes — would  you  like  to  hear  it  again?  " 

"  No." 


IN  THE  RAIN  37 

He  was  not  to  be  daunted. 

"  Come  in,  and  I'll  show  you  a  pussy." 

"  Is  there  a  pussy  in  that  box  ?  " 

"  No — but  there's  a  beauty  in  the  chair  by  the 
fire." 

Nigel  dived  out  of  the  window,  and  caught  her 
up  bodily.  Her  clothes  smelt  strongly  of  milk 
and  garden  mould,  not  an  altogether  pleasing 
combination.  But  for  some  reason  or  other  he 
felt  delighted,  and  carried  her  in  triumph  round 
the  kitchen  before  he  introduced  her  to  a  large 
placid-looking  cat. 

"  Don'  like  it." 

This  was  humiliating,  but  Nigel  persevered. 

"  Have  some  of  this — "  and  he  offered  her  a 
spoonful  of  jam  out  of  the  pot  on  the  table. 

The  little  girl  sniffed  it  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
noisseur. 

"Don'  like  it." 

"  Well,  try  this — "  plunging  the  same  spoon  into 
the  sugar  basin. 

"  Don'  like  it." 

Fortunately  at  that  moment  Janey  came  in. 

"  Nigel,  what  on  earth  are  you  doing  ? — Hullo, 
Ivy!" 

She  looked  surprised  at  the  scowling  infant 
perched  on  her  brother's  shoulder. 

"  She's  come  for  the  milk,  and  I'm  giving  her 
some  breakfast." 

"  Wan'er  go  'otne !  "  shrieked  Ivy. 

Nigel  looked  so  mortified  that  Janey  could  hardly 
help  laughing — till  suddenly  she  realised  that  there 
was  something  rather  pathetic  about  it  all.  Nigel 


38  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

had  never  used  to  struggle  for  the  good-will  of 
dirty  children. 

"  She'd  better  come  with  me,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll 
give  her  the  milk.  Her  mother  won't  like  it  if  she's 
kept." 

Ivy  alighted  with  huge  satisfaction  on  the  floor, 
and  left  the  room  with  Janey,  after  throwing  a  bit 
of  box-lid  at  the  cat. 

Janey  came  back  in  a  few  minutes. 

"Like  to  help  me  get  the  breakfast,  old  man?  " 
she  asked  cheerily. 

Nigel  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  kitchen. 

"  What  a  dear  little  thing  she  is !  "  he  said. 

"  Who  ?  Ivy  ?  I  think  she's  a  regular  little  toad. 
How  funny  you  are,  Nigel !  " 

Half-an-hour  later  the  three  Furlongers  were  at 
breakfast.  Nigel  had  always  been  subject  to 
moods  just  like  a  girl,  and  sometimes  his  changes 
from  heights  to  depths  had  been  irritating.  But 
to-day  his  brother  and  sister  saw  the  advantages 
of  such  a  nature.  The  two  boys  fooled  together 
all  through  the  meal,  and  Janet  watched  them, 
smiling.  Nigel  had  found  his  tongue  to  some 
purpose.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  more  than  ready 
to  talk  of  his  prison  experiences,  though,  as  he  had 
already  hinted  to  Janey,  he  had  two  sets  of  these. 
One  set,  typified  by  his  fumigated  clothes,  he 
seemed  positively  to  revel  in ;  the  other  set  he  never 
mentioned  of  his  free  will,  though  he  obviously  used 
to  brood  over  them. 

"  Hullo !  there's  the  postman ! "  cried  Janet 
suddenly. 


IN  THE  RAIN  39 

She  rose  to  go  to  the  door,  but  Nigel  was  nearest 
it,  and  sprang  out  before  her. 

"  Morning,  Winkworth !  "  he  shouted  hilari- 
ously. "  I'm  back  again." 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mus'  Furlonger,"  chuckled  the 
postman.  "  You  look  in  pretty  heart." 

"  Never  was  better  in  my  life,"  and  waving  a 
letter  in  his  hand  he  swung  back  into  the  kitchen. 

"  A  letter  for  Janey ! — Janey's  the  lucky  devil  " 
— as  he  flung  it  across  the  table. 

"  I  wonder  who  it's  from,"  said  Leonard ;  "  open 
it,  Janey,  and  see." 

Letters  were  always  an  excitement  in  the 
Furlonger  family — they  were  few  enough  to  be 
that. 

"  Know  the  writing,  Janey  ?  " 

Janey  turned  the  letter  over.    "It's  a  bill." 

The  boys'  faces  fell. 

"  How  dull,"  said  Leonard,  "  and  how  immoral, 
Janet! — another  of  those  ten-guinea  hats,  I 
suppose." 

"  And  you  promised  us  solemnly,"  said  Nigel, 
"  not  to  buy  any  more." 

"  It's  dreadful  of  me,"  said  Janet. 

The  boys  glanced  at  her  in  surprise — for  she 
looked  as  if  she  meant  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 
FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT 

JANET  did  not  open  her  bill  till  her  brothers 
had  gone  out  to  the  farm.  Then  she  tore  the 
envelope.  The  bill  ran — 

"  JANEY  SWEET, 

"  Curse  it ! — I  have  to  go  to  Brighton  on 
Saturday.  It's  for  my  father,  so  I  daren't  object, 
in  case  he  should  ask  too  many  questions.  But 
I  must  see  you,  dear  one — it's  nearly  a  month  since 
we  met,  and  I'm  dying  for  the  sight  of  you  and 
the  touch  of  you.  Can't  you  come  to-day?  I'm 
sure  you  can  get  away  for  an  hour  or  two — your 
brothers  must  not  take  you  from  me.  I'll  be  wait- 
ing in  Furnace  Wood,  in  the  old  place  down  by 
the  hedge,  at  five.  Come  to  me,  Janey  sweet.  I 
dreamed  of  you  last  night — dreamed  of  you  with 
your  hands  full  of  flowers. 

"  Your  lover, 

"  QUENTIN." 

Janey  stuffed  the  letter  into  her  pocket. 

"  It's  dreadful  of  me,"  she  repeated,  in  the 
same  tone  as  she  had  said  it  to  the  boys.  Those 
poor  boys!  How  innocently  and  trustfully  they 
had  swallowed  her  lie — it  was  like  deceiving 
children. 

But  she  could  not  tell  them — though  Nigel's 
strange  new  reserve  made  her  long  all  the  more 
to  be  frank  and  without  secret — they  would  be 
40 


FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT  41 

furious  if  they  knew  her  story,  now  the  story  of 
three  years.  Once  she  had  tried  hinting  it  to  Len, 
but  though  he  had  not  half  understood  her,  he  had 
made  his  feelings  about  Quentin  Lowe  pretty  plain, 
and  Janet  had  been  only  too  glad  to  change  the 
subject  before  the  danger  line  was  passed.  Nigel 
would,  of  course,  side  with  Leonard.  They  would 
look  upon  her  love  as  treachery,  for  though  there 
was  no  outward  breach  between  the  Furlongers 
and  the  Lowes,  the  former  had  always  suspected 
the  latter  of  sharp  dealing  over  the  Kent  land — 
old  Lowe  would  never  have  offered  that  absurd 
price  if  he  had  not  known  that  .the  Furlongers  were 
absolutely  obliged  to  sell. 

Old  Lowe  was  a  retired  clergyman  who  had 
come  with  his  son  to  Redpale  Farm,  just  over  the 
Kentish  border.  From  the  first  he  had  cast  a 
longing  eye  on  the  Furlonger  acres,  which  touched 
his  on  the  Surrey  side.  A  row  of  cottages  in 
obvious  disrepair  and  insanitation  had  given  his 
longing  the  necessary  smack  of  righteousness. 
At  that  time  Nigel  was  in  prison  on  remand,  and 
the  news  soon  trickled  through  the  neighbour- 
hood that  his  brother  and  sister  were  in  desperate 
money  difficulties,  and  would  have  to  sell  most 
of  their  land.  Lowe  at  once  came  forward 
with  what  he  considered  a  fair  offer,  which  the 
Furlongers,  as  no  one  else  seemed  inclined  to 
bid,  were  bound  to  accept.  The  negotiations  had 
been  carried  on  chiefly  through  a  solicitor,  but 
young  Lowe  had  paid  two  or  three  visits  to 
Sparrow  Hall. 

Janet  would  never  forget  one  of  these.    Leonard 


42  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

was  not  in  that  day,  but  though  she  had  told 
Quentin  she  could  decide  nothing  without  her 
brother,  he  had  insisted  on  sitting  with  her  in  the 
kitchen,  arguing  some  obscure  point.  She  remem- 
bered it  all — the  table  between  them,  the  firelight 
on  the  walls,  the  square  of  darkness  and  stars  seen 
through  the  uncurtained  window,  the  pipe  and 
rattle  of  the  wind.  He  had  risen  to  go,  and  sud- 
denly she  had  seen  that  he  was  trembling — and 
before  she  had  time  to  be  surprised  she  saw  that 
she  was  trembling  too.  They  faced  each  other 
for  a  minute,  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  and  dumb. 
Then  they  stooped  together  swiftly  in  a  burning 
kiss,  their  hearts  full  of  uncontrollable  ecstasy 
and  despair. 

It  had  all  been  so  sudden.  She  could  not 
remember  having  felt  the  faintest  thrill  in  his 
presence  till  that  moment.  He  said  the  same. 
When  he  had  sat  down  opposite  her  at  the  table, 
she  had  been  merely  a  woman  with  whom  he  was 
doing  business.  It  seemed  as  if  fate  had  brought 
them  together  as  an  afterthought,  and  at  first  Janey 
believed  it  could  not  last.  But  it  lasted.  It  had 
lasted  all  through  those  years,  in  spite  of  much 
wretchedness  and  a  killing  need  for  secrecy  on 
both  sides.  This  need  was  more  vital  for  Quentin 
than  for  Janey.  He  was  utterly  dependent  on  his 
father,  who,  of  course,  looked  on  the  Furlongers 
with  righteous  disgust.  So  for  three  years  meet- 
ings had  been  stolen,  letters  smuggled,  and 
happiness  snatched  out  of  sudden  hours. 

To-day  Janet  was  not  sure  how  she  could  ar- 
range a  meeting.  Meetings  with  Quentin  generally 


FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT  43 

needed  the  most  careful  planning,  and  on  this 
occasion  he  had  not  given  her  much  time.  How- 
ever, she  thought,  the  boys  would  very  probably 
go  shooting  in  the  early  evening,  and  she  could  then 
run  over  to  Furnace  Wood. 

This  was  what  happened.  A  little  manoeuvring 
sent  Nigel  and  Leonard  out  to  pot  rabbits,  and  a 
minute  or  so  later  Janey  stole  from  Sparrow  Hall, 
climbing  the  gate  opposite  into  the  fields  of 
Wilderwick.  She  did  not  wear  a  hat — she  never 
did — and  over  her  dress  was  a  disreputable  old 
jacket.  She  went  gaily  and  innocently  to  meet  her 
lover  in  garments  many  women  would  not  have 
swept  the  floor  in. 

It  was  a  long  tramp  to  Furnace  Wood.  The 
rain  had  cleared,  but  the  grass  was  wet,  and  the 
trees  shook  down  rain-drops  and  wet  leaves. 
Autumn  was  late  that  year,  still  in  the  fiery  stage 
— whole  hedges  flamed,  and  backgrounds  were 
mostly  yellow.  But  everywhere  now  were  the  dead 
leaves,  damp  as  well  as  dead.  Her  feet  splashed 
through  them,  they  caked  her  boots,  they  filled 
every  corner  with  their  smell  of  sweet  rottenness. 

Furnace  Wood  marked  the  beginning  of  the 
chain  of  hammer  ponds  below  Holtye  Common. 
For  a  long  time  the  fields  had  been  sloping  east- 
ward, till  at  last  they  dropped  into  a  tangled  valley 
stretching  from  Old  Surrey  Hall  to  Sweetwoods 
Farm.  Here  was  a  great  stillness  and  a  great 
solitude — woods,  and  thick  old  orchards,  with  now 
and  then  an  oast-house  or  a  chimney  struggling 
up  among  them.  In  this  valley  lay  Redpale  Farm, 


44  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Clay  Farm,  and  Scarlet  Farm,  all  old,  alone,  for- 
saken, beside  the  gleaming  hammer  ponds. 

The  waters  of  the  first  pond  flashed  like  a  shield 
through  the  half -naked  branches  of  Furnace 
Wood.  Janet's  quick  eyes  saw  Quentin  standing 
by  the  hedge,  and  she  began  to  run.  She  splashed 
over  the  drenched  field,  climbed  the  hedge  with  an 
agility  she  owed  to  a  total  disregard  for  her  clothes 
— and  crept  warm  and  panting  into  his  arms,  as 
he  stood  there  among  the  drifted  leaves. 

"Janey,"  he  whispered,  kissing  her  lips  and  her 
hair  and  her  wrist  wet  with  rain,  "  how  I  love 
you  .  .  .  little  Janey  sweet." 

It  pleased  Quentin  to  call  her  little,  though  as  a 
matter  of  fact  she  was  considerablv  taller  than 

m 

he.  Quentin  was  a  few  years  younger  than  Janey 
— delicate-looking,  and  yet  thick-set.  His  face  was 
pale,  though  the  features  were  roughly  hewn,  and 
his  shoulders  were  so  high  as  to  give  him  almost 
the  appearance  of  a  hunchback.  In  spite  of  this, 
he  often  struck  people  as  handsome  in  a  strange 
way — which  was  due,  perhaps,  to  a  certain  nobility 
in  the  casting  of  his  face,  with  its  idealistic  mouth, 
strong  nose,  and  great  bright  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  be  burning  under  his  heavy  brows. 

"Janey,"  he  continued,  "you're  beautiful  to-day 
— you're  part  of  the  evening.  There's  rain  on 
your  hair,  and  on  your  cheek,  so  that  when  I  kiss 
it  I  taste  rain — you're  brown  and  red,  just  like  the 
fields,  you're  windswept  and  rumpled  like  the 
woods." 

Janey  laughed. 


FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT  45 

"  And  your  teeth  gleam  like  that  white  pond 
through  the  trees." 

"  You  should  put  that  into  a  poem,  Quentin," 
she  said,  still  laughing,  "  it  sounds  funny  in  prose." 

"  Prose!  Prose! — as  if  there  could  be  any  prose 
when  you  are  near !  " 

A  copper  gleam  of  sunlight  came  suddenly  from 
under  the  rim  of  a  leaden  cloud.  For  a  moment  it 
flared  on  the  hedge,  making  the  wet  leaves  shine. 
It  gave  a  metallic  look  to  the  evening — instead  of 
sweetening  the  soaked  landscape  it  seemed  only  to 
make  it  sadder,  with  a  harsh,  reckless  sadness  it 
had  not  worn  in  the  gloom.  Quentin  put  up  his 
hand  and  picked  one  of  the  shining  sprays,  to 
fasten  it  in  Janey's  jacket.  Whenever  he  saw 
beautiful  things  in  the  hedges,  he  wanted  to  give 
them  to  Janey.  He  never  wanted  to  give  her  the 
beautiful  things  he  saw  in  shops;  he  did  not,  like 
so  many  men,  stare  into  shop  windows,  longing  to 
see  her  in  those  clothes,  those  jewels,  and  great 
hats  like  the  moon.  But  if  ever  he  found  a  sudden 
splash  of  bryony  in  the  hedge,  or  a  flush  of  bloody- 
twig,  or  honeysuckle,  or  nuts,  he  wanted  to  pick 
them  for  her.  When  it  was  May  he  had  often 
met  her  in  Furnace  Wood  with  his  arms  full  of 
hawthorn,  in  June  he  had  brought  her  dog-roses, 
in  August  ripe  ears  of  barley,  in  September  wild- 
apple  boughs;  and  now  in  October  he  picked  her 
sprays  of  red,  sodden  leaves.  There  was  a  little 
nut  on  this  spray — he  picked  it  off  and  cracked  it 
with  his  teeth,  and  put  the  kernel  into  her  mouth. 
Then  suddenly  the  sunlight  faded,  and  a  soft  rush 
of  gloom  swept  up  the  valley  of  the  hammer  ponds. 


46  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Nigel  came  home  last  night,"  said  Janet,  break- 
ing the  silence  that  had  lasted  with  the  sun. 

"  How  is  he  looking  ?  " 

"  He's  changed,  Quentin." 

"  It's  aged  him,  of  course." 

"  That  isn't  so  terrible — we  could  have  endured 
that,  we'd  expected  it.  The  awful  thing  is  that 
it's  made  him  so  childish.  Sometimes  you'd  really 
think  he  was  a  child,  by  the  way  he  speaks — and 
goes  on." 

"  He'll  soon  be  all  right — you'll  heal  him, 
Janey." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I'm  going  to.  The  worst 
thing  is  that  he's  so  reserved  with  me  and  Len. 
It  isn't  that  he  doesn't  talk  and  tell  us  things,  but 
I  know  he  doesn't  tell  us  the  things  that  really 
matter.  Oh,  Quentin  " — turning  suddenly  to  him 
— "  I  feel  such  a  wretch,  having  a  secret  from  the 
boys  when  Nigel's  like  this." 

"  You've  lost  your  logic,  sweet — or,  rather,  thank 
God,  you  never  had  any.  Your  brother's  secrets 
ought  to  make  you  worry  less  about  your  own." 

"  You  don't  understand — it's  just  the  other  way 
round." 

She  sighed  deeply,  and  her  pain  irritated  him. 

"  You  have  the  power  to  end  it  if  you  like — 
you're  not  so  badly  off  as  I  am.  You  can  tell 
your  brothers  any  day  you  choose — they  can't 
interfere." 

"Of  course  not — but  it  would  make  them  miser- 
able. They'd  be  miserable  enough  at  the  idea  of 
my  marrying  any  one,  and  leaving  them — and  as 
for  marrying  you " 


FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT  47 

"  Oh,  I  know  they  hate  me,"  broke  in  Quentin. 
"  And  they  despise  me  because  I  haven't  got  their 
health  and  muscle.  They  hate  me  for  what  I  have 
got — their  land;  and  they  despise  me  for  what  I 
haven't  got — their  muscle." 

Janet's  eyes  filled.  She  knew  that  he  was 
wretchedly  jealous  pf  her  brothers,  and  it  hurt 
her  more  than  anything  else.  She  laid  her  hand 
timidly  on  his  arm. 

"  Quentin,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  feel  that  way 
towards  the  boys.  I  can't  help  loving  them/' 

"  But  you  love  them  more  than  me." 

"  I  don't,  indeed  I  don't.  And  you  mustn't 
think  they  hate  you.  They've  got  their  hand 
against  every  one,  you  know,  and  of  course  they 
feel  sick  about  the  Kent  lands,  there's  no  denying 
it.  If  they  knew  you  loved  me,  they  might  hate 
you  then — they'd  be  jealous;  and  if  I  told  them 
now — oh,  it  would  be  all  misery  at  home ! — for  them 
as  well  as  for  me.  I'd  far  rather  have  my  secret — 
that  hurts  only  me.  When  we've  settled  anything 
definitely,  of  course  I  shall  tell  them.  But  we  may 
have  to  go  on  like  this  for  years." 
Quentin  groaned. 

"  Yes,  Janey,  that's  true — that's  the  damned 
truth.  You  should  never  have  loved  a  helpless 
fool  like  me,  all  tied  up  in  paper  and  strings.  Good 
Lord!  my  father  will  have  something  to  answer 
for — if  there's  any  one  to  answer  to  for  our 
muddlings  in  this  muddled  hell." 

"  But  you'll  win  your  independence." 

"Yes;  if  two  things  happen:  if  my  father  dies, 
which  he  isn't  likely  to,  and  which,  hang  it  all,  I 


48  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

don't  want  him  to — or  if  I  can  make  enough  by  my 
writing  to  support  two  people,  which  is  never  done 
by  pessimistic  poets  in  this  world  of  optimistic 
prose.  I  ought  to  hear  f  ronu  Baker;  soon — he's  had 
that  manuscript  over  a  month — he's  the  twenty- 
eighth  man  that's  had  it.  Oh,  damn  it  all,  Janey !  " 

They  were  sitting  together  on  a  tree-trunk  under 
the  hedge,  the  darkness  creeping  up  round  them. 
Quentin  drew  very  close  to  Janey,  and  clutched  her 
hand. 

"  I'm  a  beast  to  go  whining  to  you  like  this — but 
it  helps  me.  It's  such  a  relief  to  get  all  my  furies 
off  my  chest  and  feel  your  sympathy — feel  it,  Janey, 
you  needn't  speak,  words  seem  to  nail  things  down. 
Oh,  why  were  you  and  I  born  into  this  muddle  and 
never  given  a  chance?  I've  never  had  a  chance — 
not  the  shadow  of  one.  All  my  life  I've  suffered 
that  vile  plague,  dependence,  and  it's  poisoned  my 
blood  and  sapped  my  strength  and  perverted  my 
reason.  My  father's  to  blame  for  it.  The  whole 
object  of  his  life  has  been  to  keep  me  dependent 
on  him.  He's  stinted  me  of  everything — friends, 
money,  education — just  to  keep  me  dependent. 
He's  well  off,  as  you  know,  but  he  allows  me  a 
miserable  screw  many  tradesmen  would  be 
ashamed  to  offer  their  sons.  He's  made  my  bad 
health  an  excuse  for  cutting  short  my  time  at 
college,  and  for  not  bringing  me  up  to  any  pro- 
fession. He's  in  terror  lest  I  should  strike  out 
a  line  for  myself.  He  wants  me  to  live  my  whole 
life  on  a  negation — '  thou  shalt  not,'  he  says.  He 
dosen't  say  it  because  he's  my  father,  but  because 
he's  a  clergyman.  It's  that  which  has  spoiled 


FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT  49 

him,  because  it  hasn't  let  him  go  to  life  for  his 
principles.  Christianity  never  does.  I  hate  Chris- 
tianity, Janey — Christianity's  a  piece  of  Semitic 
bargaining — all  Semitic  religions  are  commercial, 
but  Christianity  has  been  so  far  Europeanised  that 
it  offers  its  rewards  not  for  what  you  do  but  for 
what  you  don't  do.  I  once  wrote  a  poem  on  the 
Christian  heaven — God  and  all  the  angels  and 
curly-locked  saints  yawning  their  heads  off  because 
they're  all  so  tired  of  doing  nothing,  and  at  last 
all  falling  asleep  together.  Ugh!  One  reason  I 
love  you,  Janey,  is  that  you're  so  beautifully  pagan 
— just  like  the  country  here.  The  country's  all 
pagan  at  bottom,  and  that's  why  every  one  loves 
the  country,  even  the  Christians." 

Janey  smiled,  and  pressed  his  hand.  She  knew 
Quentin  liked  "talking,"  so  she  let  him  "talk," 
though  she  troubled  very  little  about  the  questions 
that  were  so  vital  to  him.  She  knew  it  relieved 
him  to  pour  into  her  ears  the  torrent  of  abuse 
which  was  always  roaring  against  its  sluices,  and 
had  no  other  outlet — unless  it  found  its  way  into 
publishers'  offices  and  damaged  his  poor  chances 
there. 

"  It's  Christianity  which  makes  my  father  so 
damned  clever  in  keeping  me  dependent,"  continued 
Lowe.  "  He's  got  so  used  to  tying  souls  up  in 
paper  and  string  that  he  can  make  a  neat  parcel 
even  of  a  bulky,  bulgy  soul  like  mine.  You  know 
how  we  admire  shop  people  for  the  neat  way  they 
tie  up  parcels — we  couldn't  do  it.  Well,  my 
father's  a  kind  of  celestial  shop-keeper,  and  I'm 
4 


50  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

the  goods  he's  sending  out — payment  on  delivery. 
Oh,  damn!" 

Janey's  hand  went  up  to  his  face  and  stroked 
it.  Quentin's  furies  always  struck  her  as  in- 
finitely pathetic. 

"  It'll  be  all  right,  dear,"  she  whispered.  "  I'm 
sure  it  will.  You're  bound  to  get  free/' 

He  seized  her  hand  and  held  it  fiercely  in  his  while 
he  stared  into  her  eyes. 

"Janey — I  sometimes  wonder  if  I'll  ever  get 
free — or  if  I  do,  whether  I'll  find  freedom  the 
ecstasy  I  imagine  it.  Perhaps  freedom,  like  every- 
thing else,  is  a  mirage,  a  snare,  a  disillusion. 
Yesterday  I  was  reading  the  Epic  of  Gilgamesh — 

Gilgamesh,  why  dost  thou  wander  around? 
Life  which  thou  seekest  thou  canst  not  find. 

That's  the  horrible  truth — nothing  that  we  seek 
shall  we  ever  find,  unless  it's  been  found  over  and 
over  again  already.  And  then  there's  love,  Janey, 
that's  one  of  the  things  we  never  find,  though  we 
seek  it  till  our  tears  are  blood.  I've  written  a 
poem  about  that,  comparing  love  to  the  sea — to 
salt  water,  rather,  for  of  course  hundreds  of  poets 
have  compared  love  to  the  sea.  Love  is  like  the 
salt  water  that  splashes  round  the  poor  sailor 
dying  of  thirst — he  drinks  it  in  his  desperation, 
and  the  more  he  drinks  the  fiercer  becomes  his 
thirst,  and  still  he  drinks  on  in  despair  and  hope, 
till  at  last  he  ends  in  madness — that's  love.  Janey, 
that's  love." 

He  stooped  suddenly  forward,  till  his  head  was 
buried  in  her  knees. 


FATE'S  AFTERTHOUGHT  51 

"  That's  my  love,  sweet,  sweet  thing — my  love 
for  you.  It  never  sates,  it  always  burns,  it  tortures, 
it  maddens.  There  is  no  rest,  no  rest  in  my  love 
— it  wakes  me  from  my  sleep  to  long  for  you — it 
is  a  hunger  that  gnaws  through  all  my  meals — 
it  is  a  darkness  that  may  be  felt,  a  light  too 
blinding  to  be  borne  ..." 

His  shoulders  shook,  and  tears  rushed  scalding 
into  Janet's  eyes.  With  one  hand  she  stroked 
and  tangled  his  coarse  hair,  the  other  he  had 
seized  and  laid  under  his  cheek — and  she  felt  one 
burning  tear  upon  it.  Her  whole  heart  seemed 
to  open  itself  to  her  lover  in  tender  pity,  and  not 
only  to  him,  but  to  all  men — men,  with  their  fierce- 
ness in  desire  and  gentleness  in  satiety,  with  their 
terrible  sudden  temptations,  their  weakness  and 
nobleness,  their  beasthood  and  their  godhead. 
Men  struck  her — had  always  struck  her — as  in- 
tensely pathetic;  and  now  Quentin  and  his  love 
wrung  her  breast  with  tears.  Before  that  storm 
of  hungry  love  she  bowed  her  head  in  mute  homage 
— she  worshipped  him  as  he  lay  there  on  her  knees. 

He  lifted  himself  suddenly.  Darkness  was  creep- 
ing fast  into  the  woods,  with  little  shivering  gasps. 

"  Janey,  before  you  go,  there's  something  I  want 
particularly  to  ask  you.  Next  Tuesday  week  my 
father's  going  to  London  for  the  day.  He  won't 
be  back  till  late — I  want  you  to  come  to  Redpale 
when  he's  gone." 

"  Redpale.  .  .  .  but  there  are  the  servants, 
Quentin." 

"They're  all  right.     I'll  send  the  girls  over  to 


52  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Grinstead  in  the  afternoon ;  there'll  only  be  the1  men 
about  the  farm,  and  they  needn't  trouble  us." 

"  But  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  there's  your  brothers,  of  course,"  he  cried 
harshly ;  "  can't  you  get  away  from  them  for  one 
afternoon?" 

"  Yes,  I  can.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I  said 
1  But/  " 

"  You  mustn't  say  *  But ' — Janey,  do  you  realise 
that  you  and  I  have  never  had  a  meal  together?  " 

"  No." 

"  We  must  have  a  meal  together — I  want  to  see 
you  eat — I  want  to  drink  with  you." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  come.  I'll  get  over  early  in 
the  afternoon.  .  .  .  Now  I  must  say  good-bye." 

"  When  I  see  you  next  I  may  have  heard  from 
Baker.  Then  we  shall  know  our  fate." 

"Our  fate  .  .  .?" 

"Yes,  for  if  Baker  can't  take  my  stuff,  no  one 
else  will,  and  my  last  chance  is  gone." 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,  dear." 

"  No,  I  won't.  I'll  think  of  you,  dream  of  you — 
whenever  you  are  so  gracious  as  to  let  me  sleep." 

He  stood  up,  and  drew  her  head  down  to  his 
shoulder,  holding  it  there  with  trembling  hands, 
while  his  lips  sought  her  face.  Her  mouth  was 
against  his  sleeve,  and  she  kissed  it  while  he  kissed 
her  cheek  and  neck.  For  a  full  minute  they  stood 
together  thus,  and  when  they  drew  apart,  the  first 
star  hung  a  timid  candle  above  the  burnt-out  fires  of 
the  west. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  HERO 

OCTOBER  dropped  from  red  to  brown  in  a  sudden 
night  of  rain,  and  the  Three  Counties  began  to  draw 
over  themselves  their  fallow  cloaks  of  sleep.  In 
every  view  the  ploughed  fields  spread  brown  and 
wet  and  empty,  some  with  a  ruddy  touch  of  Kentish 
clay,  others  with  a  white  gleam  of  Surrey  chalk. 

Nigel  flung  himself  into  the  farmyard  toil,  and 
complained  because  it  was  too  scanty.  Their  ten 
acres  of  grass  and  orchard,  with  three  or  four  cows 
and  some  poultry,  did  not  give  nearly  enough 
work,  he  thought,  to  two  able-bodied  men.  He 
remembered  the  days  when  the  acres  of  Sparrow 
Hall  had  rolled  through  marsh  and  coppice  into 
Kent — when  fifteen  sweet-mouthed  cows  had 
gathered  at  the  gates  at  milking-time,  and  golden 
rye  from  their  high  fields  had  gone  in  their  waggon 
to  Honey  Mill.  He  was  miserably  aware  that  he 
had  no  one  but  himself  to  blame  for  this,  though 
his  brother  and  sister  never  reproached  him.  He 
had  been  impatient  of  the  slow  bounties  of  the 
fields,  he  had  plunged  into  quick,  adventurous 
dealings;  for  a  few  months  he  had  brought  wealth, 
hurry  and  excitement  into  his  life — then  had  come 
poverty,  and  the  ageless  monotony  of  prison. 

When  he  looked  round  on  their  reduced  estate 
it  was  not  so  much  humiliation  that  ate  into  his 
heart  as  a  sense  of  treachery.  He  had  betrayed 

63 


54  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

the  country.  Impatient  of  its  slow,  honest  ways, 
he  had  sought  others,  crooked,  swift,  defiled.  He 
had  turned  renegade  to  the  quiet  fields  round  his 
home,  and  entered  a  rival  camp  of  reckless  striv- 
ings and  meanness.  This  had  been  his  sin,  and 
he  was  being  punished  for  it  still.  The  punish- 
ment of  the  State  for  his  sin  against  the  State 
was  over  .  .  .  but  the  punishment  for  his  sin 
against  his  home,  the  country,  and  himself  was 
still  being  meted  out  to  him  by  all  three. 

The  high  spirits  that  had  seized  him  on  that 
first  rainy  morning  of  his  freedom  often  came  and 
snatched  him  up  again,  but  they  always  dropped 
him  back  into  a  depression  that  was  'almost  horror. 
He  had  moments  of  crazy  gaiety  and  uproarious- 
ness,  of  sheer  animal  delight  in  his  bodily  freedom; 
but  behind  them  all  lurked  the  consciousness  that 
he  was  still  in  prison.  He  had  been  sentenced 
for  life.  He  was  shut  up  in  some  dreary  place, 
away  from  the  farm,  away  from  Len  and  Janey. 
He  might  work  on  the  farm  the  whole  day,  and 
fool  with  his  brother  and  sister  the  whole  evening, 
but  he  knew  none  the  less  that  he  was  shut  up  away 
from  them  all. 

During  this  time  he  had  peculiar  dreams.  He 
often  fell  asleep  full  of  fury  and  despair,  but  his 
dreams  were  always  of  sunlit  spaces,  children  and 
flowers.  Again  and  again  in  them  appeared  the 
little  girl  Ivy — not  dirty  and  cross,  but  lovely  and 
fresh  and  winsome,  smiling  and  beckoning.  It 
seemed  as  if  behind  all  the  horrors  and  fogs  of  his 
life  something  divine  and  innocent  was  calling — 


THE  HERO  55 

at  times  it  was  comfort  and  peace  and  healing  to 
him,  at  others  it  was  the  chief  of  his  torments. 

The  Furlongers  had  always  lived  aloofly  at 
Sparrow  Hall — scorned,  even  before  their  downfall, 
by  their  own  class,  they  had  nevertheless  not 
sought  comrades  in  the  classes  beneath  them. 
They  had  always  sufficed  one  another,  and  had  not 
cared  for  the  distractions  of  over-the- fence  gossip 
or  the  public-house. 

However,  since  his  return  from  Parkhurst,  Nigel 
had  realised  a  certain  tendency  on  the  part  of 
labourers  and  small  farmers  to  seek  him  out  and 
claim  equal  terms.  This  was  not  merely  due  to 
the  consciousness  of  his  degradation,  the  delight 
of  patronising  the  proud  Fur  longer — its  chief 
motive  was  a  strange  sort  of  deference.  Socially, 
his  crime  had  reduced  him  to  their  level,  but 
morally  it  had  given  him  an  exaltation  which  had 
never  been  his  before.  He  now  belonged  to  that 
world  of  which  they  caught  rare  dazzling  glimpses 
in  their  Sunday  papers.  He  was  only  a  rank 
below  Crippen  in  their  hero-worship,  and  when 
they  met  him  in  the  village  they  stared  at  him  in 
much  the  same  way  as  they  stared  at  the  mur- 
derer's photograph  in  The  People. 

At  first  Nigel  hung  back  from  them,  sick  and 
confused  with  shame,  but  as  the  days  went  by, 
the  emptiness  of  his  life  beat  him  into  concilia- 
tion. Humiliated  to  the  dust,  he  longed  for  some 
sort  of  regard,  however  spurious,  just  as  a  starving 
man  will  eat  dung.  His  brother  and  sister  gave 
him  love  and  kindness  in  plenty,  but  they  were 


56  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

much  too  practical  in  their  emotions  any  longer 
to  give  him  deference.  Before  he  went  to  prison 
he  had  been,  though  the  youngest,  the  leader  of 
the  family — his  stronger  brain,  his  quicker  wits 
had  made  him  the  captain  of  their  exploits.  But 
now  his  brain  and  wits  were  discredited.  Len 
and  Janey  did  not  despise  him,  they  were  not 
ashamed  of  him  before  men — but  he  had  forfeited 
his  position  in  the  household.  They  no  longer 
looked  upon  him  as  their  superior,  he  was  just  the 
younger  brother.  At  first  he  had  scarcely  noticed 
this — everything  had  been  strange,  and  he  had  let 
slip  former  realities.  But  as  the  days  went  by, 
and  Parkhurst  became  more  and  more  of  a  horrible 
and  suggestive  parenthesis,  he  was  able  to  recall 
the  old  ways  and  see  how  things  had  changed.  He 
made  no  complaint,  but  his  spirit  was  chafed,  and 
sought  crazily  for  balms. 

"  Come,  don't  be  stand-offish,  Mus'  Furlonger," 
said  the  shepherd  of  Little  Cow  Farm,  who,  meet- 
ing him  outside  the  Bells  at  Lingfield,  had 
suggested  a  drink. 

"  No,  you're  a  better  man  than  me  now — aren't 
you  ?  "  said  Nigel,  showing  his  teeth. 

"  I  wurn't  hinting  such,  Mus'  Furlonger — only 
t'other  chaps  in  there  do  want  to  hear  about  the 
prison." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  it's  always  interesting  to  hear  about  prison 
— specially  from  chaps  wot  has  bin  there.  We 
git  a  lot  about  'em  in  Lloyd's  and  The  People, 
but  there's  nothing  like  a  fust-hand  story — 
surelye !  " 


THE  HERO  57 

Nigel  laughed  crudely. 

"  And  it's  a  treat  to  meet  a  real  convict — 
none  of  your  petty  larceny  and  misdemeanour 
fellers.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  here's  greatness  thrust  upon  me,"  said 
Furlonger,  and  swaggered  into  the  bar. 

The  fuggy  atmosphere  affected  him  in  much  the 
same  way  as  the  smell  of  ether  and  dressings 
affects  a  man  entering  a  hospital — the  spirit  of 
the  place,  assisted  by  crude  outward  manifestations, 
cowed  him  and  made  him  its  slave. 

"  Name  it,"  said  the  shepherd. 

"  Porter." 

It  was  three  years  since  he  had  had  a  really  stiff 
drink.  He  had  never  cared  for  liquor,  indeed  he 
had  always  been  a  man  of  singularly  temperate  life, 
a  spare  eater,  a  water  drinker.  But  to-day  a 
sudden  desire  consumed  him — not  only  to  drink, 
but  to  be  drunken.  He  remembered  the  one  occa- 
sion on  which  he  had  been  drunk.  It  was  the  day 
he  had  known  definitely  of  the  collapse  of  Wick- 
ham's  scheme,  and  his  own  inevitable  disgrace. 
He  had  sat  in  the  kitchen  at  Sparrow  Hall,  drink- 
ing brandy  till  his  head  had  fallen  forward  on 
the  table  and  his  legs  trailed  back  behind  his  chair. 
Afterwards,  there  had  been  a  shameful  waking, 
but  he  could  never  forget  how  peace  had  crept  in 
some  mysterious  physical  way  up  his  spine,  from 
the  base  of  his  neck  to  his  brain,  with  a  soft 
tingling — it  had  been  purely  physical  at  first,  then 
it  had  passed  on  to  mental  dulling  and  dimming. 

To-day,  as  the  frothy  brown  porter  ran  down 
his  throat,  he  felt  that  gracious  tingling,  that 


58  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

creeping  upwards  of  relief.  He  looked  round  the 
bar.  It  was  full  of  labouring  men  and  small- 
holders, who  stared  at  him  with  round  eyes  that 
were  curious  and  would  be  ingratiating — they 
wanted  to  know  him,  because  in  their  opinion  he 
was  better  worth  knowing  than  before  he  went 
to  gaol. 

"  This  is  Mus'  Breame  of  Gulledge,"  said  the 
Little  Cow  shepherd.  "  How  are  you,  Mus' 
Breame? — This  is  Mus'  Furlonger  of  Sparrow 
Hall." 

Mus'  Breame  held  out  a  dark  and  hairy  hand. 
Nigel's  lips  were  twitching.  Somehow  he  felt 
much  more  humiliated  by  the  beery  approval  of 
these  men  than  by  the  cold  looks  of  their  betters. 
However,  he  gave  his  short,  dry  laugh,  and  shook 
hands. 

"  And  here's  Mus'  Dunk  of  Golden  Compasses, 
and  Mus'  Boorer  of  Kenthouse  Hatch — this  here 
is  old  Adam  Harmer,  as  has  been  cowman  at 
Langerish  this  sixty  year." 

Nigel  had  seen  all  the  men  before,  and  had  once 
sold  a  calf  to  Adam  Harmer,  but  he  realised  that 
now  he  was  meeting  them  on  new  terms. 

"  I  wur  wunst  in  the  lock-up  meself  for  a  week," 
drawled  old  Harmer.  "  'Twas  summat  to  do  wud 
poaching,  but  so  long  ago  as  I  forget  'xactly  wot. 
Surelye!" 

"  Reckon  prisons  have  changed  unaccountable 
since  your  day,"  said  Dunk,  throwing  a  glance 
at  Nigel,  as  if  to  show  that  an  opening  had  been 
tactfully  made  for  him.  But  Harmer  clung  to 
speech. 


THE  HERO  59 

"  Reckon  they  have :  surelye.  In  my  days  you'd 
hemmed  liddle  o'  whitewash  and  all  that — it  wur 
starve  and  straw  and  bugs  in  my  day,  and  two  or 
three  fellers  together  in  a  cell,  either  larkin'  or 
murderin'  each  other." 

The  Little  Cow  shepherd  looked  uneasily  at 
Furlonger. 

"  Yus — and  the  constables  too,  so  different.  Not 
near  so  haughty  as  they  is  now,  but  comfortable 
chaps,  as  'ud  let  yer  see  yer  gal  fur  a  drink,  and 
walk  out  o'  the  plaace  fur  half  a  sovereign." 

The  conversation  was  obviously  getting  into  the 
wrong  hands.  The  only  person  who  looked  inter- 
ested was  Nigel. 

"  Reckon  all  that's  changed  now,"  hastily  put  in 
Dunk — "  they  say  now  as  gaol's  lik  a  hotel — but 
not  so  free  and  easy,  I  take  it,  not  so  free  and  easy. 
Name  it,  Mus'  Furlonger — see  your  glass  is 
empty." 

This  time  Nigel  named  a  brandy. 

"  Reckon  you  can't  order  wot  you  lik  fur  dinner 
— and  got  to  do  your  little  bit  o'  work.  But  the 
gaol-buildings  themselves,  they're  just  lik  hotels, 
they're  palisses — handsomer  than  a  workhouse." 

"  They're  damned  stinking  hells,"  said  Nigel — 
the  brandy  had  loosed  his  tongue. 

A  murmur  of  approval  ran  through  the  bar. 
The  great  Furlonger  had  at  last  been  drawn  into 
the  conversation.  He  sat  at  a  small  table,  his 
fingers  round  his  empty  glass — about  half  a  dozen 
voices  begged  him  to  "  name  it." 

At  first  he  hesitated.  He  was  now  a  hero — for 
the  first  time  for  years — and  yet  it  was  a  hero- 


60  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

worship  he  could  not  swallow  sober.  But  he 
wanted  it.  He  wanted  to  be  looked  up  to,  for  a 
change — to  be  deferred  to,  and  exalted;  and  if  he 
could  not  stand  it  sober,  he  must  get  drunk,  that 
was  all.  He  named  another  brandy. 

The  patrons  of  the  bar  were  drawing  round  him. 
The  barmaid  was  patting  and  pulling  at  her  hair; 
even  "  Charley,"  the  seedy  nondescript  that  haunts 
all  bars,  and,  unsalaried  and  ignored,  brings  the 
dirty  glasses  to  the  counter  from  the  outlying  tables 
—even  "  Charley  "  came  forward  with  a  deprecating 
grin  and  heel-taps  of  stout. 

Nigel  had  gulped  down  the  brandy,  and,  without 
exactly  knowing  why,  had  sprung  to  his  feet. 

"  Give  us  a  speech,  Mus'  Furlonger ! "  cried 
Boorer  of  the  Kenthouse.  "  Tell  us  about  gaol, 
and  why  it's  damned  and  stinking." 

"  Have  something  to  cool  you  fust,"  suggested 
Breame.  t 

Nigel  shook  his  head.  He  was  in  that  conve- 
nient state  when  a  man  is  sober  enough  to  know 
he  is  drunk. 

"  Gaol's  damned  and  stinking,"  he  began,  glar- 
ing sharply  round  him,  "  in  the  same  way  that  this 
bar  is  damned  and  stinking — because  it's  full  of 
men.  But  in  gaol  they're  divided  into  two  classes, 
top  scoundrels  and  bottom  scoundrels.  The  top 
scoundrels  are  the  warders,  with  their  eye  at  your 
door,  and  their  hand  inside  your  coat — in  case 
you've  got  baccy." 

A  murmur  of  sympathy  ran  through  his  listeners, 
who  had  been  a  little  taken  aback  by  his  opening 
phrases. 


THE  HERO  61 

"  Baccy 's  one  of  the  things  you  aren't  allowed. 
There's  lots  of  others — drink,  and  girls,  and  your 
own  body  and  soul — the  body  your  mother  gave 
you,  and  the  soul  God  gave  you,"  he  finished 
sententiously  with  a  hiccup. 

Some  one  thrust  another  glass  into  his  hand,  and 
he  gulped  it  down.  It  burnt  his  throat. 

"  I  once  had  a  body,  and  I  once  had  a  soul,  but 
they  aren't  mine  any  longer  now.  They  belong  to 
the  state — hie — they're  number  seventy-six — that's 
me  who's  speaking  to  you — number  seventy-six — 
no  other  name  for  three  yearsh  ...  go  and  see  the 
p'lice  every  month — convict  seventy-six  .  .  .  made 
me  no  better'n  a  child — hie — what'er  you  to  do  with 
a  man  when  he's  got  too  clever  for  you  ? — turn  him 
into  a  child — a  crying  child — a  damn  crying  child 
—like  me " 

And  Furlonger  burst  into  tears. 

The  bar  looked  disconcerted.  Nigel  stood  lean- 
ing up  against  the  table,  sobbing  and  hiccuping. 
The  barmaid  offered  him  her  handkerchief,  which 
was  strongly  scented,  and  edged  with  lace. 
Breame  muttered — "  We're  unaccountable  sorry, 
Mus'  Furlonger,"  and  Dunk  suggested  another 
brandy. 

Suddenly  Nigel  flung  round  on  them,  his  lips 
shrinking  from  his  teeth,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"  Damn  you!  "  he  cried  thickly — "  damn  you  all 
— you  cheap  cads — gaping  and  cringing  and 
pumping — feeding  on  my  misery  and  my  shame 
— hie  .  .  .  look  at  you  all  grinning  .  .  .  you're 
pleased  because  I'm  in  hell.  You'll  go  home  and 
gas  about  me,  and  say  '  poor  fellow  ' — blast  you ! 


62  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

— I'm  better  than  anything  in  Lloyd's  or  the  News 
of  the  World — hie — let  me  go — you're  dirt,  all  of 

you — let  me  go " 

He  plunged  forward,  and  elbowed  his  way 
through  them  to  the  door.  He  was  very  unsteady, 
and  crashed  into  the  doorpost,  bruising  his  fore- 
head. But  at  last  he  was  out  in  the  sun-spattered 
afternoon — with  a  cool  breeze  bringing  the  scent  of 
rain  from  the  forest,  and  little  clouds  flying  low. 


THICK  WOODS 

WHEN  Len  and  Janey  came  in  from  the  yard  that 
evening  they  found  Nigel  in  the  kitchen,  sitting  at 
the  table  scowling.  His  hair  was  damp  on  the 
temples,  and  his  cheeks  were  flushed. 

"  Hullo,  old  man !  "  cried  Janey,  "  when  did  you 
come  in?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  but  supplemented  his  scowl 
by  a  grin.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  scowl 
and  grin  at  the  same  time. 

Len  went  up  to  his  brother,  and  looked  at  him 
closely  and  rather  sternly. 

"  What  have  you  been  up  to?  " 

Still  Nigel  did  not  speak.  Then  suddenly  he 
dropped  his  head,  rolling  it  on  his  arms. 

"  Is  he  drunk  ?  "  whispered  Janey. 

"  What  d'you  think?" 

Len  tried  to  pull  up  his  brother's  head,  but  Nigel 
growled  and  shook  him  off. 

"  Nigel !  "  cried  Janey. 

He  made  no  answer. 

She  tried  to  slip  her  hand  under  his  forehead, 
and  lift  it. 

"  Nigel,  what  have  you  been  doing?  " 

He  snarled  something  at  her,  and  she  remem- 
bered the  other  awful  occasion  when  she  had  seen 
her  brother  drunk. 

"  Leave  him  alone,  and  he'll  come  to  himself," 
said  Len.  "  It's  natural  for  him  to  get  drunk — 
he's  the  sort." 

63 


64  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Oh,  no,  he  isn't ! — Nigel,  come  upstairs  with 
me,  and  let  me  put  something  cool  on  your  head." 

"  Damn  you !  "  growled  the  boy,  "  leave  me 
alone." 

"  Oh,   Nigel,   don't  hate  me — I'm  not  blaming 

you — I   think   I   know   why  you   got  drunk,   and 
j " 

Her  sentence  was  never  finished.  With  a  yell  of 
fury  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  knocking  over  his  chair, 
and  seized  her  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you !  " 

"Oh!"  cried  Janet. 

Leonard  vaulted  across  the  table,  grasped  his 
brother's  collar,  and  struck  him  on  the  side  of  the 
head.  Nigel  loosed  his  grip  of  Janet,  and  turned 
to  close  with  Len,  who  was,  however,  much  the 
better  man  of  the  two.  He  forced  Nigel  down  on 
the  table,  and  proceeded  to  punish  him  with  all  his 
might. 

"  Apologise,  you  brute  .  .  .  beg  her  pardon  on 
your  knees,"  he  shouted. 

Nigel  did  not  speak — his  lips  were  tight  shut,  a 
thin  red  streak  in  the  whiteness  of  his  face. 

"  Len  .  .  .  stop ! — you'll  kill  him !  "  cried 
Janet.  She  stood  petrified,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot.  Never  in  her  whole  life  had  she  witnessed 
such  a  scene  in  the  Furlonger  family.  The  boys 
were  fighting.  She  had  seen  them  spar  before, 
but  never  anything  like  this.  And  Nigel's  drunk- 
enness .  .  .  and  his  words  to  her  ...  a  sickly, 
stifling  horror  crept  up  her  throat  and  nearly 
choked  her. 

"  Len — stop ! — he's  had  enough." 


THICK  WOODS  65 

"  Not  till  he  apologises — apologise,  you  damn 
brute!" 

Nigel's  teeth  were  set.  He  struggled  mechanic- 
ally, Len  had  hold  of  his  right  wrist,  and  his  left 
hand  was  bent  under  him.  Suddenly,  however, 
he  managed  to  wrench  them  both  free — the  next 
minute  he  seized  his  brother's  throat.  For  a 
moment  or  two  they  struggled  desperately,  Leonard 
half  strangled,  and  in  the  end  Nigel  rolled  off  the 
table  to  the  floor,  where  both  young  men  lay 
together. 

Leonard  was  the  first  to  rise. 

"  Good  Lord,  Janey,"  he  said  weakly. 

"  Nigel— he's  dead." 

"  Not  he!" 

They  both  knelt  down,  and  raised  him  a  little. 
Blood  began  to  run  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"  You've  killed  him!  "  cried  Janey. 

"  No — he's  only  bitten  his  tongue.  Look  " — 
lifting  the  corner  of  his  brother's  lip — "  his  teeth 
are  locked  like  a  vice." 

"  Oh,  all  this  has  been  too  horrible !  " 

"  Run  and  fetch  some  water — we'll  bring  him  to 
in  a  minute." 

She  filled  a  jug  at  the  tap,  and  together  they 
bathed  Nigel's  forehead  and  neck.  Len's  rage 
had  entirely  cooled,  and  he  handled  his  uncon- 
scious brother  almost  tenderly. 

At  last  the  boy  opened  his  eyes.  To  the  surprise 
of  both  Len  and  Janet  his  first  glance  was  quite 
mild. 

"  Oh  .  .  ."  he  said  weakly. 

Then  suddenly  remembrance  seemed  to  come. 
6 


66  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

He  shook  off  his  brother's  hand,  scowled  at  Janey, 
and  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"  I'm  going  to  bed,"  he  muttered,  leaning  un- 
steadily against  the  table. 

"  You  mustn't  stand,"  said  Janet,  trying  to 
soothe  him,  "  come  and  sit  here  for  a  minute,  and 
then  Len  shall  help  you  up  to  bed." 

"  I  don't  want  Len,  damn  him !  " 

He  staggered  towards  the  door. 

"  Len — go  after  him." 

"  Not  if  I  know  it." 

"  He'll  never  get  upstairs  without  you." 

"  He's  much  better  alone." 

They  heard  Nigel  slipping  and  stumbling  on 
the  stairs.  Once  he  fell  with  a  crash,  but  at  last 
he  reached  the  top.  Luckily  his  door  was  open, 
and  he  lurched  in.  The  next  minute  they  heard 
a  thud  and  a  creak  as  he  flung  himself  on  the  bed. 

He  woke  at  dawn  from  what  seemed  an  eternity 
of  sleep — not  one  of  those  swift,  deep  sleeps  which 
we  are  unconscious  of  till  we  find  their  healing 
touch  on  our  lids  at  waking,  but  a  series  of  sleeps, 
heavy,  yet  tossed,  continually  broken  by  grey 
glimmers  of  consciousness,  by  sudden  heats  and 
pains,  quick  stabs  of  memory,  blind  spaces  of 
forgetfulness — that  feverish,  aching  forget  fulness, 
which  is  memory  in  its  acutest  form. 

He  sat  up  in  bed,  his  temples  throbbing,  his 
face  flushed  and  damp.  He  pushed  his  hair  back 
from  his  forehead,  and  stared  out  at  the  morning 
with  eyes  that  burned.  He  fully  remembered  all 
that  had  happened,  without  such  reminders  as  his 


THICK  WOODS  67 

headache,  his  sickness,  and  the  rumpled  clothes  in 
which  he  had  slept  all  night.  His  brain  throbbed 
to  the  point  of  torture.  Sharp  cuts  of  pain  tore 
through  it,  hideous  revisualisations  seemed  to 
scorch  whole  surfaces  of  it  with  sudden  flames. 
Facts  hammered  at  it  with  monotonous  merci- 
lessness. 

He  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and  for  some  minutes 
lay  quite  still,  staring  out  at  the  woods.  There 
they  lay  in  their  straight  brown  line,  those  woods. 
He  could  almost  hear  the  rock  of  the  wind  in  them, 
creeping  to  him  over  the  stillness  of  the  fields. 
They  seemed  to>  whisper  peace — peace  to  his  throb- 
bing pulses  and  burning  skin  and  aching  body 
and  breaking  heart.  All  his  universe  was  shat- 
tered, except  those  quiet  external  things — the 
woods  and  fields  round  his  home.  They  stood 
unchanged  through  all  his  turmoils,  they  re- 
sponded only  to  their  own  remote  influences — the 
warming  and  cooling  of  winds,  the  waxing  and 
waning  of  the  sun's  heat,  the  frostiness  of  vapours. 
He  might  rage,  despair,  scream,  and  curse  in  them 
without  changing  the  colour  of  one  leaf. 

He  longed  stupidly  for  tears,  but  those  easy 
tears  of  his  humiliation  would  not  come.  He  felt 
that  if  he  thought  of  Len  and  Janey  he  might  cry. 
But  he  would  not  think  of  them,  though  in  his 
heart  was  an  infinite  tenderness.  Len  and  Janey 
were  like  the  woods,  they  did  not  change — then 
suddenly  he  realised  that  nothing  had  changed,  it 
was  only  he.  He  had  changed,  and  could  not  fit 
in  with  his  old  environment.  Curse  it!  Damn  it! 
Where  could  he  find  peace  ? 


68  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Perhaps  he  had  formally  renounced  peace  on 
that  day  he  plunged  his  hands  into  the  pitchy 
mess  of  money-making.  He  had  known  peace 
before  then — soft  dreams  that  flew  to  him  from 
the  lattices  of  dawn.  He  remembered  days  when 
he  had  lain  in  the  corner  of  some  field,  among  the 
rustling  hay-grass,  his  soul  lost  in  the  eternities 
of  peace  within  it.  But  now — he  had  renounced 
peace.  He  had  turned  from  pure  things  to  defiled 
— and  he  had  sharpened  his  brain,  whetted  it  on 
artificialities.^  For^lhe  man  with  trains  there  is^\ 
seldom  peace,  but  an  eternal  questing.  The  man 
without  brains  suffers  only  the  problem  of  "  what?  " 
It  is  the  man  with  brains  who  has  to  face  the  seven- 
Itimes  hotter  problem  of  "  whyjl 

vy  was  a  man,  alone  of  all  creatures,  allowed 
to  be  at  war  with  his  environment — a  prey  to 
changes  that  were  independent  of,  and  unable  to 
reproduce  themselves  in,  the  world  around  him? 
Why  was  a  man  the  meeting-place  of  god  and 
brute,  the  battle-ground  of  the  two  with  their  un- 
ending wars? — and  so  made  that  if  one  should 
triumph  and  drive  out  the  other,  the  vanquished, 
whether  god  or  brute,  took  away  part  of  his  man- 
hood with  him,  and  peace  was  won  only  at  the 
price  of  incompleteness?  .  .  .  Why  was  consum- 
mation only  a  prelude  to  destruction? — the  lustre- 
less horns  of  the  daylight  moon  seemed  to  be  tell- 
ing him  that  it  waxed  full  only  to  wane.  Why 
was  a  man  given  desires  that  were  gratified  only 
at  their  own  expense?  WTiy  did  his  young  blood 
call — call  into  the  fire  and  dark — with  only  the  fire 
and  dark  to  answer  it? 


THICK  WOODS  69 

It  was  in  this  turmoil  of  "  whys  "  that  Nigel's 
longing  for  the  woods  became  desperate.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow,  and  stared  out  at  them — 
Swites  Wood,  Summer  Wood,  and  the  woods  of 
Ashplats  and  Hackenden.  He  found  himself 
dreaming  of  their  narrow,  soaking  paths,  of  their 
brown  undergrowth,  and  carpet  of  dead  leaves 
— he  seemed  to  see  the  long  rows  of  ash,  with 
here  and  there  a  yellow  leaf  fluttering  on  a  bough. 
He  would  go  to  the  woods,  he  would  find  rest  in 
their  silent  thickness. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed  and  across  the  room,  with 
what  seemed  one  movement  of  his  big,  graceful 
body.  He  lifted  his  water- jug  from  the  floor,  and 
drank  deeply — then  he  washed  himself  and  put  on 
fresh  clothes.  He  felt  clean  and  cool,  and  the 
mere  physical  sensation  gave  him  new  strength  and 
dignity.  He  went  quietly  downstairs.  Len  was 
up  and  in  the  yard,  Janet  was  in  the  kitchen — but 
neither  saw  him  as  he  stole  out  of  the  house 
and  up  the  lane. 

He  left  it  soon  after  passing  Wilderwick,  and 
plunged  into  a  field.  The  grass  was  covered  with 
frost-crystals,  beginning  to  melt  in  the  lemon  glare 
of  the  sun.  It  was  a  strange,  yellow  dawn,  dream- 
like, pathetic — a  little  wind  fluttered  with  it  from 
the  east,  and  smote  the  hedges  into  ghostly  rust- 
lings. Nigel  crept  through  the  pasture  as  if  he 
feared  to  wake  some  one  asleep,  and  entered  the 
first  of  his  woods. 

The  rim  was  touched  with  flame — one  or  two 
fiery  maples  blazed  out  of  the  hedge  against  a 
background  of  yellow.  Creeping  through  those 


70  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

golds  and  scarlets  into  the  sober  browns  was 
symbolic.  He  went  a  few  steps,  then  flung  him- 
self down  upon  the  leaves.  On  the  top  they  were 
dry,  underneath  he  felt  and  smelt  their  gracious 
dampness. 

The  fires  in  his  heart  seemed  to  die.  He  felt 
bruises  where  Len  had  struck  him,  but  they  galled 
him  no  longer;  the  half- forgotten  peace  and  liberty 
of  other  days  was  beginning  to  drift  like  a  shower 
into  his  breast.  Why  could  he  not  live  always  in 
the  woods,  instead  of  among  people  whom  he  hurt 
and  who  hurt  him,  though  he  loved  them  and  they 
loved  him?  There  was  no  love  in  the  woods — 
love  had  passed  out  of  them  in  September,  leaving 
them  very  quiet,  very  peaceful,  in  a  great  brown 
hush  of  sleep.  Love  was  what  hurt  in  life — love 
and  brains;  take  away  these  and  you  take  away 
suffering.  Oh,  if  love  and  thought  could  go 
together  out  of  his  life  as  they  had  gone  out  of 
the  woods — and  leave  him  in  a  great  brown  hush 
of  sleep. 

For  nearly  an  hour  he  lay  in  the  brake,  hidden 
by  golden  tangles  of  bracken  and  stiff  clumps  of 
tansy.  He  had  begun  to  drowse,  and  capture  rags 
of  happiness  in  dreams,  when  suddenly  he  heard 
a  rustling  in  the  bushes.  Hang  it  all!  He  could 
not  have  peace,  even  in  the  woods.  The  rust- 
ling came  nearer,  and  he  heard  the  panting  of 
a  dog — with  a  mumbled  oath  he  sat  up  in  the 
fern. 

"Oh!   .    .    ." 

Nigel's  head  and  shoulders  were  not  a  reassur- 
ing sight  to  confront  one  suddenly  on  a  lonely 


THICK  WOODS  71 

woodland  walk,  and  though  Tony  did  not  scream 
her  voice  was  full  of  alarm.  At  first  Nigel  did 
not  recognise  her,  she  stirred  up  in  him  merely 
impersonal  feelings  of  annoyance,  but  the  next 
moment  he  seemed  to  see  her  face  in  a  glow  of 
lamplight  on  East  Grinstead  platform.  This  was 
the  lone  girl-kid  he  had  befriended — and  thought  no 
more  of  since  then. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  hastily,  scrambling 
to  his  feet,  "  I'm  afraid  I  startled  you." 

"  Oh,  no " — she  looked  awkward  and  embar- 
rassed. "  You're  Mr.  Smith,  aren't  you  ?  " 

Nigel  stared  at  her  in  some  bewilderment,  then 
suddenly  remembered  another  of  the  half-forgotten 
incidents  of  that  night. 

"  Yes— I'm  Smith,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I— I  hope 
you  got  home  all  right  in  the  taxi." 

"  Quite  all  right,  thank  you — and  mother  said 
I  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  you  for  taking  such 
care  of  me." 

There  was  something  about  this  school-girl,  who 
evidently  took  him  for  a  man  of  her  own  class  and 
position,  which  filled  him  with  an  infinite  pain — 
a  pain  that  was  half  a  wistful  pleasure.  She 
stood  before  him  in  the  path,  a  slim,  unripe  promise 
of  womanhood,  her  long  hair  plaited  simply  on 
her  back,  her  face  glowing  with  health,  her  eyes 
bright  and  shy.  He  felt  unfit,  uncouth — and  yet 
she  did  not  seem  to  see  anything  strange  in  his 
appearance,  sudden  as  it  had  been.  He  realised  that 
now  at  last  he  was  face  to  face  with  a  human 
being  between  whom  and  him  the  barrier  of  his 
disgrace  did  not  stand.  This  child  did  not  exalt 


72  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

him  for  his  evil  story,  neither  did  she  despise  him 
— his  crime  simply  did  not  exist.  Its  hideousness 
was  not  tricked  out  with  tinsel  and  scarlet,  as  by 
the  cads  in  the  bar — it  was  just  invisible,  put 
away.  Strange  words  thrilled  faintly  into  his 
mind — "  the  remission  of  sins." 

"I'm  glad  you  came  to  me  at  East  Grinstead," 
said  Tony,  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  long  pause. 
"You  see,  mother  never  got  my  postcard,  so  no 
wonder  there  wasn't  any  one  to  meet  me." 

"  I'm  glad  I  was  any  use."  He  spoke  stiffly,  in 
a  mortal  fear  lest,  for  some  reason  unspecified,  her 
attitude  of  fragrant  ignorance  should  collapse. 

"  Do  you  live  near  here?  "  she  asked  naively. 

He  hesitated.    "  Not  very." 

"  I  do—quite  near.  I  think  I  must  be  going 
home  now." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  say  good-bye,  when 
suddenly  a  shrill  wailing  scream  rose  from  the  field 
outside  the  wood. 

"Oh!"  cried  Tony. 

They  both  turned  and  listened,  their  hands  still 
clasped.  The  next  minute  it  came  again — shrill, 
frantic. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  girl,  shuddering,  "it 
sounds  just  like  a  baby." 

"  I  think  it's  a  rabbit — perhaps  it's  caught  in  a 
trap." 

He  left  hold  of  her  hand  and  looked  over  the 
hedge.  The  next  minute  he  sprang  into  it,  forcing 
his  way  through,  while  she  stared  after  him  with 
troubled  eyes. 


THICK  WOODS  78 

"  Yes,  it's  a  rabbit,"  he  cried  thickly,  "  caught  in 
one  of  those  spring  traps,  poor  little  devil!  " 

She  scrambled  after  him  into  the  field. 

"  Oh,  let  it  out ! — poor  little  thing ! — oh,  save 
it!" 

But  he  was  already  struggling  with  the  trap,  and 
she  saw  blood  on  his  hands  where  the  teeth  had 
caught  them. 

"  I'll  do  it,  never  fear,"  he  muttered,  grinding  his 
teeth.  "  Can  you  hold  the  poor  little  chap  ? — He'll 
hurt  himself  worse  than  ever  if  he  struggles  so." 

She  grasped  the  soft  mass  of  fur,  damp  and 
draggled  with  its  agony,  while  Nigel  tried  to  prise 
open  the  steel  jaws. 

"There!" 

The  rabbit  bounded  out  of  the  trap,  but  the  next 
minute  fell  down  struggling. 

"It's  leg's  broken,"  cried  Nigel.  "Poor  little 
beast ! — what  a  damned  infernal  shame !  " 

He  picked  it  up  tenderly. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  destroy  it  ?  "  asked  Tony, 
gulping  her  tears. 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  had — look  the  other  way." 

She  moved  off  a  few  steps,  and  heard  nothing 
till  Nigel  said,  "  Poor  little  beggar !  " 

He  came  up  to  her,  holding  the  dead  rabbit  by 
its  ears. 

"  That's  all  you're  good  for  when  you've  been 
in  a  trap — to  die.  Being  in  a  trap  breaks  parts 
of  you  that  can  never  be  mended.  It's  always 
kind  to  kill  broken  things." 

He  stood  hesitating  a  moment,  then  suddenly 


74  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

he  flushed  awkwardly,  pulled  off  his  cap  and  turned 
away. 

Tony  stared  after  him.  She  saw  him  go  with 
bowed  head  across  the  field.  Half  way  he  dropped 
the  rabbit,  but  he  did  not  stop.  He  walked 
straight  to  the  fence,  and  climbed  over  it  into  the 
lane. 

An  impulse  seized  her — she  could  not  account  for 
it,  but  she  suddenly  turned  to  follow  him.  She 
wanted  to  thank  him  again,  perhaps — to  ask  him 
something,  she  scarcely  knew  what.  But  he  was 
gone.  There  was  only  the  dead  rabbit,  lying  still 
warm  in  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE 

THE  next  day  was  the  day  Janet  had  promised 
to  have  tea  with  Quentin  at  Redpale  Farm.  She 
had  prepared  for  it  carefully,  telling  her  brothers 
she  was  going  shopping  in  East  Grinstead,  and  would 
not  be  home  till  late. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  she  slipped  up- 
stairs to  dress.  She  was  in  a  state  of  fever,  and 
for  the  first  time  thought  of  her  clothes.  She  had 
never  troubled  about  them  when  she  went  to  meet 
Quentin  in  the  woods,  but  now  she  was  going  to 
his  house — a  thrill  ran  through  her;  she  had  never 
in  her  life  been  inside  Redpale  Farm,  but  now 
she  would  see  the  room  where  Quentin  sat  and 
thought  of  her  in  the  long,  dark  evenings — which 
he  had  told  her  of  so  often — when  the  stars 
crawled  through  veils  of  wrack,  and  the  wind 
piped  down  the  valley  of  the  hammer  ponds. 

Memories  of  his  few  pronouncements  on  clothes 
rose  to  guide  her.  He  liked  her  to  come  to  him 
as  a  fragment  of  the  day  on  which  he  waited. 
To-day  was  a  brown  day,  hiding  under  rags  of 
mist  from  a  pale,  sun-washed  sky — so  she  put  on 
a  brown  dress,  of  a  long-past  fashion,  and  mended 
in  places,  but  beautiful  in  clinging  folds  about 
her — and  in  her  breast  she  pinned  the  last  yellow 
rose  of  the  garden. 

75 


76  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Good-bye,  Janey,"  called  Len  from  the  orchard. 

"  Good-bye,"  sang  out  Nigel. 

She  waved  her  hand  to  them,  not  trusting  her- 
self to  speak. 

As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight,  she  climbed 
into  the  fields,  and  walked  across  them  to  Old 
Surrey  Hall.  Here  were  the  tangled  borders  of 
Kent — she  plunged  through  a  hedge  of  elder  and 
crack-willow,  and  was  in  the  next  county.  Quentin 
always  used  to  say  that  there  was  a  difference 
between  the  three  counties,  even  where  they 
touched  in  this  corner.  Surrey  was  park-like,  and 
more  sophisticated  than  the  other  two;  one  had 
wide,  green  spaces  and  dotted  trees.  Sussex  was 
moor-like,  covered  with  wild  patches  and  pines, 
hilly  and  bare;  Kent  was  untidy,  tangled  and  lush, 
full  of  small,  twisting  lanes,  weighted  orchards 
and  huddled  farms.  Janet  passed  the  flat  gable- 
end  of  Anstiel,  buried  in  the  thickets  of  its  garden, 
and  came  out  on  the  Gated  Road.  This  wound 
down  the  valley  of  the  hammer  ponds  to  Redpale, 
Scarlets  and  Clay.  It  was  seldom  used,  as  there 
were  gates  every  few  hundred  yards  to  prevent  the 
cattle  from  straying,  and  in  winter  the  hammer 
ponds  sometimes  overflowed. 

Redpale  was  the  first  of  the  valley  farms,  and 
stood  in  a  reed-grown  hollow  beside  a  wood.  It 
was  an  old  house,  with  a  carnival  of  reds  in  its 
huge,  sloping  roof.  Janet  stole  quickly  through 
the  yard  and  came  up  the  garden  to  the  door.  It 
was  opened  before  she  reached  it,  and  Quentin 
seized  her  hands. 


OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE         77 

"  You've  come  at  last — I've  been  watching  for 
you." 

He  dragged  her  into  the  passage,  banged  the 
door,  and  kissed  her  in  the  dark. 

"  Come  into  the  study,"  he  cried  eagerly. 
"  Come  and  hallow  me  a  hundred  lonely  evenings 
in  one  hour." 

He  took  her  into  a  low,  book-lined  room,  where 
a  fire  was  burning.  A  chair  was  pulled  up  to  the 
fire,  and  over  it  was  spread  a  gorgeous  Eastern 
rug. 

"  You're  to  sit  there,  Janey.  I  prepared  that 
rug  for  you — it  has  your  tintings,  your  browns  and 
whites  and  reds.  Sit  down,  and  I'll  sit  at  your 
feet." 

She  sat  down,  but  before  he  did  so,  he  fetched 
a  jug  of  chrysanthemums,  and  put  them  on  the  table 
beside  her. 

"  Now  you're  posed,  Janey  sweet — posed  for  me 
to  gaze  at  and  worship.  You  don't  know  how 
often  I've  dreamed  of  you  in  that  chair,  with  old 
oak  at  your  back,  flowers  at  your  elbow,  and  fire- 
light in  your  eyes.  One  night  I  really  thought  I 
saw  you  there,  and  I  fell  at  your  knees — as  I  do 
now — and  took  your  hand — as  I  do  now.  But  it 
was  only  a  dream,  and  I  sat  on  in  my  own  chair 
and  watched  our  two  fetches  sitting  there  before  me, 
you  in  the  chair  and  I  at  your  feet." 

He  kissed  her  hands  repeatedly,  and  his  poor, 
hot  kisses  seemed  to  drain  love  and  pity  in  a  torrent 
from  her  heart. 

"  Quentin,  I'm  so  glad  I  came.     Is  this  where 


78  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

you  sit  in  the  evenings?  Now  I  shall  know  how 
to  imagine  you  when  I  think  of  you  after  supper." 

"  '  When  you  think  of  me  after  supper ' — you 
quaint  woman !  how  funnily  you  speak !  " 

He  laughed,  and  hid  his  face  in  her  knees.  But 
the  next  moment  his  head  shot  up  tragically. 

"  I've  bad  news  for  you,  dear." 

"Oh,  what  is  it?  .  .  ." 

"  Baker  has  returned  my  poems." 

"Oh!  .  .  ." 

"  Yes— there  they  are." 

He  pointed  to  the  grate,  where  one  or  two  frag- 
ments of  charred  paper  showed  among  the  cinders. 

She  bowed  her  face  over  his. 

"  I  thought  you  were  happy  when  I  came." 

"  Happy ! .  of  course  I  was  happy  when  you 
came.  Janey,  if  you  come  to  me  on  my  death-bed, 
I'll  be  happy — if  you  come  to  me  in  hell,  I'll  sing 
for  joy." 

"  Did  Baker  write  about  the  poems?  " 

"  No — only  a  damned  printed  slip ;  he  doesn't 
think  'em  worth  a  letter.  It's  all  over  with  me, 
Janey — with  us  both.  I'll  never  be  good  for  any- 
thing— I'm  a  rotter,  a  waster,  a  Spring  Poet. 
We're  both  done  for — our  love  isn't  any  more 
use." 

"  Can't  you  hope,  dear  ?  " 

"Can  you?" 

She  began  to  cry. 

She  had  always  fought  hard  against  tears  when 
she  was  with  Quentin,  but  this  afternoon  her  dis- 
appointment was  too  bitter.  She  realised  the  sour 
facts  to  which  hope  and  trust  had  long  blinded 


OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE         79 

her — that  Quentin  would  never  win  his  independ- 
ence, and  therefore  that  marriage  with  him  was 
impossible  till  his  father's  death.  She  saw  how 
much  she  had  unconsciously  relied  on  Baker's 
acceptance  of  the  poems,  their  last  hope.  Quen- 
tin's  words  had  scattered  a  crowd  of  little  delicate 
dreams,  scarcely  realised  while  she  entertained 
them,  known  only  as  they  fled  like  angels  from 
the  door.  After  those  three  weary  years  of  wait- 
ing she  had  dreamed  of  being  his  at  last — his  wife, 
his  housemate — no  longer  meeting  him  in  the 
dark  corners  of  woods,  but  his  before  the  world, 
honoured  and  acknowledged.  Now  that  dream 
was  shattered — the  three  weary  years  would  be- 
come four  weary  years,  and  the  four,  five — and 
on  and  on  to  six  and  seven.  The  woods  would 
still  rustle  with  their  stealthy  footsteps,  their 
tongues  still  burn  with  lies  .  .  .  she  covered  her 
face,  and  wept  bitterly — with  all  the  impassioned 
weakness  of  the  strong. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  ashamed.  .  .  ." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I'm  crying.  But,  Quentin,  I  feel 
broken,  somehow.  Our  love's  so  great,  and  we're 
parted  by  such  little  things." 

"  Janey,  Janey.  .  .  ." 

She  sobbed  more*  dryly  now — anguish  was 
stiffening  her  throat. 

"  Must  we  wait  all  those  years?  "  he  whispered. 

"  What  eke  can  we  do  ?  " 

He  whispered  again.  "Must  we  wait  all  those 
years  ?  " 


80  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

She  lifted  her  face,  understanding  him  suddenly. 

"  Quentin,  you  and  I  must  do  nothing  to — 
degrade  our  love." 

"  But  it's  degraded  already — it's  thwarted,  and 
all  thwarted  things  are  degraded.  If  we  fling 
aside  our  fears  and  triumph  over  circumstances, 
then  it  will  be  exalted,  not  degraded." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  Janey,"  he  continued,  his  voice  muffled  in  her 
hands,  which  he  held  against  his  mouth.  "  You 
and  I  have  been  locked  out  of  Paradise — but  we 
can  climb  over  the  gates." 

She  was  still  silent.  Quentin  had  never  spoken 
to  her  so  openly  before — after  earlier  disappoint- 
ments he  had  sometimes  hinted  what  he  now 
expressed;  but  his  love  had  never  made  her 
tremble;  violent  as  it  was,  it  was  reverent. 

"Janey  .  .  .  will  you  climb  over  the  gates  of 
Paradise  with  me?" 

"  No,  dear." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  our  love's  not  that  sort." 

"  It's  the  sort  that  waits  and  is  trampled  on." 

"  It's  strong  enough  to  wait." 

"  How  white  your  face  is,  Janey ! — you  speak 
brave  words,  but  you're  trembling." 

"  Yes,  I'm  trembling." 

"  Because  you're  not  speaking  the  truth ;  you're 
lying — in  the  face  of  Love.  You  see  plainly  that 
if  you  and  I  wait  till  we  can  marry,  we  shall  wait 
for  ever.  Our  only  chance  is  to  take  matters  into 
our  own  hands,  and  let  circumstances  and  oppor- 
tunities be  damned.  You  make  out  that  you're 


OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE         81 

denying  Love  for  its  own  good — that's  another  lie. 

*  Wait,'    you   say,    because   you're   afraid.      Why, 
what    have    we   been    doing    all    these    years    but 

*  wait '  ? — wait,  wait ;  wait  till  our  hearts  are  sick 
and  our  hopes  are  dust.    If  we  wait  any  longer  our 
love  will  die — and  then  will  you  find  much  com- 
fort in  the  thought  that  we  have  '  waited  '  ?  " 

"  But  there's  the  boys,  Quentin." 

An  oath  burst  from  young  Lowe. 

"  The  boys !  the  boys ! — that's  your  war-cry, 
Janey.  I'm  nearly  sick  of  it  now.  And  how 
appropriate! — your  brothers  are  such  models  of 
good  behaviour,  ain't  they?" 

"  Don't,  Quentin — it's  for  that  very  reason  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  I  remember  how  your 
reasons  go — the  boys  have  their  secrets,  so  you 
must  be  without  one;  the  boys  have  made  a 
pretty  general  hash  of  law  and  order,  so  you 
must  be  a  kind  of  Sunday-school  ma'am.  Really. 
Janet!" 

"  You  don't  understand  what  it  is  to  live  with 
people  who  think  you  ever  so  much  better  than  you 
really  are — you  have  to  keep  it  up  somehow." 

"  But  surely  you  don't  think  you'll  be  commit- 
ting a  crime  by  giving  our  love  a  chance.  You 
can't  be  such  a  prude  as  to  stickle  for  a  ceremony 
— a  few  lines  scribbled,  a  few  words  muttered." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  that  were  all.  But  it's 
no  good  trying  to  prove  that  you're  simply  offer- 
ing me  marriage  with  the  ceremony  left  out.  In 
some  cases  that  might  be  true,  but  not  in  ours. 
You  can't  give  the  name  of  marriage  to  a  few 
hurried  meetings,  all  secrecy  and  lies.  Things  are 
6 


82  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

bad  enough  as  they  are,  without  adding — that 
mockery." 

Quentin  sighed. 

"  You're  an  extraordinary  woman,  Janey ;  you 
breathe  the  pure  spirit  of  recklessness  and  pagan- 
ism— and  then  suddenly  you  give  vent  to  feelings 
that  would  become  Hesba  Stretton.  You're  a 
moralist  at  bottom — every  woman  is.  There's  no 
use  looking  for  the  Greek  in  a  woman — they're  all 
Semitic  at  heart,  every  one  of  'em.  You'll  begin 
to  quote  the  Ten  Commandments  in  a  minute." 

Janey  said  nothing,  and  for  some  time  they  did 
not  move.  The  wind  rushed  up  to  the  farmhouse, 
blustered  round  it,  and  sighed  away.  The  sun- 
shine* began  to  slant  on  the  woods,  tarnishing  their 
western  rims. 

Then  suddenly  the  kettle  began  to  sing.  They 
both  lifted  their  heads  as  they  heard  it — it  reminded 
them  of  the  meal  they  were  to  have  together. 

"  Janey,  will  you  make  tea?  " 

She  stood  up  quickly  as  his  arms  fell  from  her 
waist.  This  sudden,  most  domestic,  diversion  was 
a  relief.  She  began  to  prepare  the  meal,  and  he 
crouched  by  the  fire  and  watched  her. 

"  You  shall  pour  out  tea,  love — then  we'll  do 
things  in  the  grand  style,  and  smash  the  tea-pot." 

While  she  waited  for  the  tea  to  draw  she  came 
over  to  the  mirror  above  the  fireplace  and  began 
to  arrange  her  hair.  The  firelight  played  on  her 
as  she  stood  there,  her  arms  lifted,  her  head  thrown 
back,  half  her  face  in  shadow,  half  flushed  in  the 
glow. 

"  Janey,  you  are  the  symbol  of  Love — all  light 


OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE   83 

and  darkness  and  disarray.  It's  cruel  of  you  to 
stand  like  that — it's  profane.  For  you're  not  Love, 
you're  morality." 

"  It's  funny,  Quentin,  but  you  never  can  under- 
stand my  reasons  for  what  I  do — it's  because 
they're  not  poetic  enough,  I  suppose." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  any  reasons  at  all — 
only  a  moral  sense." 

He  rose  and  went  to  sit  at  the  table,  resting  his 
chin  on  his  hands.  She  came  behind  him  and  bent 
over  him. 

"  Dear  one,  I've  seen  such  a  lot  of  unhappy  love 
that  I've  made  up  my  mind  ours  shall  be  different. 
...  I  refuse  you  because  I  love  you  too  much." 

Quentin  sighed  impatiently. 

"  If  I  did  what  you  ask,"  continued  Janey  tremu- 
lously, "  our  love  would  die." 

"  Nonsense ! — how  dare  you  say  such  things ! 
Why  should  it  die?" 

"  I — I  don't  know — but  I'm  sure  it  would.  Oh, 
Quentin,  I  know  you  don't  understand  my  reasons, 
because  I  really  haven't  given  them  to  you  prop- 
erly. They're  things  I  feel  more  than  things  I 
know." 

She  went  and  sat  down  opposite  him,  and  began 
to  pour  out  tea. 

"  Let's  talk  of  something  that  isn't  love." 

He  laughed. 

"  Let's  breathe  something  that  isn't  air.  Every- 
thing's love — if  we  talked  about  flowers,  or  books, 
or  animals,  or  stars,  we  should  be  talking  about 
love.  Without  love  even  our  daily  newspapers 
wouldn't  appear." 


84  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"Then  don't  let's  talk  of  anything— let's  hold 
our  tongues." 

"  Very  well,  Janey." 

He  smiled  at  the  simplicity  of  the  woman  who 
thought  she  could  silence  love  by  holding  her 
tongue. 

For  some  minutes  they  sat  opposite  each  other, 
swallowing  scalding  tea,  crumbling  cake  upon  their 
plates.  Their  first  meal  together,  on  which  they 
had  both  set  such  store,  had  become  an  ordeal  of 
mistrust  and  silence.  The  sunset  was  now  ruddy 
on  the  woods,  and  the  sky  became  full  of  little 
burning  wisps  of  cloud,  like  brands  flung  out  of 
the  west.  They  hurried  over  the  sky,  and  dropped 
behind  a  grass-grown  hill  in  the  east,  crowding 
after  one  another,  kindling  from  flame  to  scarlet, 
from  scarlet  to  crimson.  The  wind  came  and 
fluttered  again  round  the  house — darkness  began 
to  drop  into  the  room.  Outside,  a  rainbow  of 
colours  gleamed  and  flashed  in  the  sunset,  as  it 
struck  the  hammer  ponds  and  the  wet  flowers  of 
the  garden — but  the  window  looked  east,  and  there 
was  nothing  but  the  firelight  to  wrestle  with  the 
shadows  that  crept  from  the  corners  towards  the 
table.  Soon  the  table  with  the  food  on  it  became 
mysterious,  gloomed  with  shadows  and  half-lights 
— then  the  dimness  crept  up  the  bodies  of  Quentin 
and  Janey,  leaving  only  their  white  faces  staring 
at  each  other.  They  had  given  up  even  the  pre- 
tence to  eat — their  eyes  were  burning,  and  yet 
washed  in  tears. 

Suddenly  Janey  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  I  must  go."  " 


OVER  THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE         85 

"  Go — why,  it's  barely  five." 

"  But  I  must." 

He  rose  hurriedly.  For  a  moment  they  faced 
each  other  over  the  unfinished  meal,  then  Quentin 
came  towards  her. 

"  You're  frightened,  Janey?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Of  me?" 

"  No." 

"  But  of  yourself.  .  .  ." 

She  began  to  tremble  violently,  and  suddenly 
his  arms  were  round  her,  her  sobs  shaking  them 
both. 

"  My  little  Janey.  .  .  ." 

"  Quentin,  Quentin  ...  be  merciful  .  .  .  I'm  in 
your  power." 

He  looked  down  into  her  drowning  eyes,  at  the 
pure  outlines  of  her  face,  seen  palely  through  the 
dusk. 

"  I'm  in  your  power,"  she  repeated  vaguely. 

"  Janey  .  .  .  Janey,"  he  whispered,  "  you're  in 
my  power  .  .  .  but  I'm  in  Love's.  Love  is  stronger 
than  either  of  us — and  Love  says  '  Over  the  gates ! 
— over  the  gates ! '  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BRAMBLETYE 

THE  next  few  days  were  to  Nigel  like  a  piece 
of  steep  hill  to  a  cart-horse.  There  was  only  one 
comfort — he  felt  no  temptation  to  seek  oblivion 
again  as  he  had  sought  it  at  the  Bells.  He  turned 
surlily  from  the  men  he  had  looked  to  for  allevia- 
tion— he  knew  they  could  not  give  it.  All  they 
could  do  was  to  cover  his  wounds  with  septic  rags 
— they  had  no  oil  and  wine  for  him. 

So  he  put  down  his  head,  seeing  nothing  but  the 
little  patch  of  ground  over  which  he  moved,  planted 
his  feet  firmly,  and  pulled  from  the  shoulder. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  he  saw  such  a  little  of  his 
way  that  he  did  not  notice  Janey  was  doing  pretty 
much  the  same  thing — with  the  difference  that 
she  fretted  more,  like  a  horse  with  a  bearing-rein, 
which  cannot  pull  from  the  collar.  Side  by  side 
they  were  plunging  up  the  hill  of  difficulty — and 
yet  neither  saw  how  the  other  strained. 

Len  vaguely  realised  that  something  was  wrong 
with  Janet,  but  he  put  it  down  to  her  anxiety 
about  Nigel.  An  atmosphere  of  reticence  and  mis- 
understanding had  settled  on  Sparrow  Hall,  frank- 
ness had  gone  and  effects  were  put  down  to  the 
wrong  causes.  Len  tried  to  help  Janey  by  help- 
ing Nigel.  It  struck  him  that  his  brother  would 
be  happier  if  he  had  less  pottering  work  to  do. 
So  he  took  upon  himself  all  the  monotonous  details 
of  the  yard,  and  asked  Nigel  to  see  to  the  larger 
86 


BRAMBLETYE  87 

matters,  which  involved  much  tramping  in  the 
country  round. 

One  day  towards  the  end  of  October,  Len  asked 
him  to  attend  an  auction  at  Forest  Row.  He  went 
by  train,  but  as  the  auction  ended  rather  earlier  than 
he  expected,  he  decided  to  walk  home. 

It  was  a  pale  afternoon,  smelling  of  rain.  The 
sky  was  covered  with  soft  mackerel  clouds,  dappled 
with  light,  and  the  distances  were  mysterious  and 
tender.  Nigel  had  a  special  love  for  distances — 
for  three  years  he  had  not  been  able  to  look  further 
than  a  wall  some  thirty  yards  off,  except  when  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  that  one  far  view  prison  could 
not  rob  him  of,  the  sky.  Now  the  stretch  of  dis- 
tant fields,  the  blur  of  distant  woods,  the  gleam  of 
distant  windows  in  distant  farms,  even  the  distant 
gape  of  Oxted  chalk-pit  among  the  Surrey  hills, 
filled  him  with  an  ineffable  sense  of  quiet  and 
liberty. 

For  this  reason  he  walked  home  along  the  high 
road,  ignoring  the  dusty  cars — so  that  he  might  look 
on  either  side  of  him  into  distances,  the  shaded 
sleep  of  meadows  in  the  east,  the  pine-bound  brows 
of  the  Forest  in  the  west. 

He  did  not  feel  that  resentment  at  Nature's 
indifference  to  human  moods,  which  is  a  man's 
right  and  a  token  of  his  lordship.  On  the  contrary, 
the  beauty  and  happiness  of  the  background  to 
his  travail  gave  him  a  vague  sense  of  ultimate 
justice.  The  peace  of  the  country  against  the  rest- 
less misery  of  human  life  reminded  him  of  those 
early  Italian  pictures  of  the  Crucifixion — in  which, 
behind  all  the  hideous  mediaeval  realism  of  the 


88  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

subject,  lies  a  tranquil  background  of  vineyard 
and  cypress,  lazily  shining  waters,  dream  cities  on 
the  hills.  That  was  Life — a  crucifixion  against  a 
background  of  green  fields. 

He  was  roused  from  his  meditations  by  being 
nearly  knocked  down  by  a  big  car.  He  sprang 
into  the  hedge,  and  cursed  with  his  mouth  full 
of  dust.  The  dust  drifted,  and  he  saw  some  one 
else  crouching  in  the  hedge  not  a  hundred  feet 
away.  It  was  a  girl  with  her  bicycle — somehow  he 
felt  no  surprise  when  he  saw  that  it  was  Tony 
Strife,  the  "  girl-kid,"  again. 

She  was  obviously  in  difficulties.  One  of  her 
tyres  was  off,  and  her  repairing  outfit  lay  scattered 
by  the  roadside.  She  did  not  see  him,  but  stooped 
over  her  work  with  a  hot  face.  Nigel  did  not 
think  of  greeting  her — though  their  last  encounter 
had  impressed  him  far  more  than  the  first;  she 
had  even  come  once  or  twice  into  his  dreams, 
standing  with  little  Ivy  among  fields  of  daisies,  in 
that  golden  radiance  which  shines  only  in  sleep. 

He  was  passing,  when  suddenly  she  lifted  her 
head,  and  recognition  at  once  filled  her  eyes — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Smith!   ..." 

Her  voice  had  in  it  both  relief  and  entreaty. 
He  stopped  at  once. 

"What's  happened?" 

"  I've  punctured  my  tyre — and  I  can't  mend  it." 

He  knelt  down  beside  her,  and  searched  among 
the  litter  on  the  road. 

"  Why,  you  haven't  got  any  rubber !  " 

"  That's  just  it.     I  haven't  used  my  bicycle  for 


BRAMBLETYE  89 

so  long  that  I  never  thought  of  looking  to  see  if 
everything  was  there.  What  shall  I  do?" 

"  Let  me  wheel  it  for  you  to  a  shop." 

"  There's  nowhere  nearer  than  Forest  Row,  and 
that's  three  miles  away." 

"  Are  you  in  a  great  hurry?  " 

"  Yes— terrible.  The  others  have  gone  up  to 
Fairwarp  in  the  car  for  a  picnic.  There  wasn't 
enough  room  for  us  all,  so  Awdrey  and  I  were  to 
bicycle;  then  she  said  her  skirt  was  too  tight,  so 
they  squeezed  her  in,  and  I  bicycled  alone.  It's 
quite  close  really,  but  I  had  this  puncture,  and  they 
all  passed  me  in  the  car,  and  never  saw  me,  they 
were  going  so  fast.  I  don't  know  how  I  can 
possibly  be  at  Fairwarp  in  time." 

"  No — nor  do  I.  We  can't  mend  your  tyre  with- 
out the  stuff,  and  the  nearest  shop  is  two  miles  from 
here." 

"  I'll  have  to  go  home,  that's  all.  They'll  be 
awfully  sick  about  it — for  I've  got  the  nicest  cakes 
on  my  carrier." 

Nigel  laughed. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  have  the  advantage,  after 
all.  Just  think — you  can  eat  them  all  yourself !  " 

"  They're  too  many  for  one  person.  I  say,  won't 
you  have  some  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  a  shame." 

"  Oh  no — do  have  some.  I  hate  eating  alone — 
and  I'm  awfully  hungry." 

She  began  to  unstrap  the  parcel  from  her  carrier. 

"  This  is  a  dusty  place  for  a  picnic,"  said  Nigel, 
"  let's  go  down  the  lane  to  Brambletye,  and  eat 
them  there." 


90  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

The  idea  and  the  words  came  almost  together. 
He  did  not  pause  to  think  how  funny  it  was  that 
he  should  suddenly  want  to  go  for  a  picinc  with 
a  school-girl  of  sixteen.  It  seemed  quite  natural, 
somehow.  However,  he  could  not  help  being  a 
little  dismayed  at  his  own  boldness.  This  girl 
would  freeze  up  at  once  if  by  any  chance  he  be- 
trayed who  he  really  was.  As  for  her  people — but 
the  thought  of  their  scandalised  faces  was  an  incite- 
ment rather  than  otherwise. 

"Where's  Brambletye?"  asked  Tony. 

"  Don't  you  know  it  ? — it's  the  ruin  at  the  bottom 
of  that  lane.  You  must  have  passed  it  often." 

"  I've  never  been  down  the  lane — only  along  the 
road  in  the  car." 

"And  you  live  so  near!  Why,  I've  often  been 
to  Brambletye,  and  I  live  much  further  away  than 
you." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

This  was  a  settler,  to  which  Nigel  had  laid  him- 
self open  by  his  enthusiasm.  He  decided  to  face 
the  situation  boldly. 

"  I  live  over  in  Surrey — at  a  place  called  Fan's 
Court." 

"  Fan's  Court,"  she  repeated  vaguely.  "  I  don't 
think  I've  heard  of  it." 

"  Oh,  it's  a  long  way  from  you — beyond  Blindly 
Heath — and  only  a  little  place.  I'm  not  very  well 
off,  you  know." 

She  glanced  at  his  shabby  clothes,  and  felt  em- 
barrassed, for  she  saw  that  he  had  noticed  the  glance. 

He  picked  up  the  litter  from  the  roadside,  and 
began  to  wheel  her  bicycle  down  the  hill. 


BRAMBLETYE  91 

"  I  say,"  she  breathed  softly,  "  this  is  an 
adventure." 

So  it  was — for  both,  in  very  different  ways.  For 
her  it  was  an  incursion  into  lawlessness.  Her 
father  was  tremendously  particular,  even  her  girl 
friends  had  to  pass  the  censor  before  intimacy  was 
allowed,  and  as  for  men — why,  she  had  never  really 
known  a  man  in  her  life,  and  here  she  was,  picnic- 
ing  with  one  her  parents  had  never  seen!  Nigel 
was  in  exactly  the  opposite  position — he  was 
adventuring  into  law  and  respectability.  He  was 
with  a  girl,  a  school-girl,  of  the  upper  middle 
classes,  to  whom  he  was  simply  a  rather  poverty- 
stricken  country  gentleman — to  whom  his  disgrace 
was  unknown,  who  admitted  him  to  her  society 
on  equal  terms,  ignorant  of  the  barriers  that  divided 
them.  He  looked  down  at  her  as  she  walked  by 
his  side,  her  soft  hair  freckled  with  light,  her  eyes 
bright  with  her  thrills — and  a  faint  glow  came  into 
his  cheeks,  a  faint  flutter  to  his  pulses,  nothing  fierce 
or  mighty,  but  a  great  quiet  surge  that  seemed  to 
pass  over  him  like  the  sea,  and  leave  him  stranded 
in  simplicity. 

They  walked  down  the  steep  lane  which  led 
from  the  road,  and  wound  for  some  yards  at  the 
back  of  Brasses  Wood.  Here  in  a  hollow  stood 
the  shell  of  a  ruined  manor,  flanked  by  a  moat. 
Two  ivy-smothered  towers  rose  side  by  side, 
crowned  by  strange,  pointed  caps  of  stone;  the 
walls  were  lumped  with  ivy,  grown  to  an  enormous 
density  and  stoutness.  The  place  looked  deserted. 
There  was  a  small  water-mill  behind  it,  and  a  farm, 
but  no  one  was  about. 


92  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Nigel  wheeled  Tony's  bicycle  in  at  the  dis- 
mantled door.  The  roof  was  gone,  and  all  the 
upper  floors — the  sky  looked  down  freely  at  the 
grass  hillocks  which  filled  the  inside  of  the  ruins. 
There  were  one  or  two  small  rooms  still  partly 
ceiled,  and  these  were  full  of  farm  implements  and 
mangolds. 

A  tremulous  peace  brooded  over  Brambletye. 
Birds  twittered  in  the  ivy,  the  tall,  capped  turrets 
were  outlined  against  a  sky  that  flushed  faintly  in 
the  heart  of  its  grey,  as  the  sunset  crept  up  it  from 
the  hills.  Both  Nigel  and  Tony  were  silent  for  a 
moment,  standing  there  in  the  peace. 

"  Fancy  my  never  having  been  here  before,"  said 
the  girl  at  last.  "  How  ripping  it  is !  " 

"  I'm  glad  I  brought  you." 

"  It's  strange,"  continued  Tony,  as  she  unfast- 
ened the  cakes  from  her  bicycle,  "  that  I  haven't 
seen  you  before — before  I  met  you  at  East  Grin- 
stead,  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  I've  been  away,  I've  not  lived  at  home  for 
some  time.  You  haven't  been  here  long,  have 
you?"  He  was  anxious  to  shift  the  conversation 
from  dangerous  ground. 

"  We  came  to  Shovelstrode  about  three  years 
ago.  Before  that  we  lived  near  Seaford.  I  go  to 
school  at  Seaford,  you  know." 

School  seemed  a  fairly  safe  topic. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  school,"  he  said,  as  they 
began  to  eat  the  cakes. 

School  was  Tony's  paramount  absorption,  and 
no  one  else  ever  asked  her  to  speak  of  it.  Indeed, 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  expanded  of  her 


BRAMBLETYE  93 

own  accord,  her  family  would  silence  her  with, 
"  Tony,  we're  sick  of  that  eternal  school  of  yours 
— one  would  think  it  was  the  whole  world,  and  your 
home  just  a  corner  of  it."  That  was  in  fact  the 
relative  positions  of  home  and  school  in  Tony's 
mind.  School  was  a  world  of  kindred  spirits,  of 
things  that  mattered,  home  was  a  place  of  exile,  to 
which  three  times  a  year  one  was  bundled — and 
ignored.  To  her  delight  she  realised  that  her  new 
friend  sympathised  with  her,  and  understood  her 
feelings. 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Smith,  how  beastly  it  is  to 
be  in  a  place  where  every  one  gets  hold  of  the 
wrong  end  of  what  you  say — where  you  don't 
seem  to  fit  in,  somehow." 

"  I  do  know — it's — it's  exactly  the  same  with 
me." 

"  Don't  they  like  you  being  at  home  ?  " 

"Rather! — they  like  it  better  than  I  deserve. 
But  I  don't  fit  in." 

"  And  you've  nowhere  else  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  anywhere  else." 

Tony  looked  mystified. 

His  eyes  were  shining  straight  into  hers,  and 
they  seemed  to  be  asking  her  something,  pleading, 
beseeching.  She  found  a  strange  feeling  invad- 
ing her,  a  feeling  that  had  sometimes  surged  up 
in  her  heart  when  she  saw  a  dying  animal,  or  a 
bird  fluttering  against  cage-bars.  But  this  time 
there  was  a  new  intensity  in  it,  and  a  stifling  sense 
of  pain.  She  suddenly  put  out  her  hand  and  laid 
it  on  his — then  drew  it  shyly  away. 

The  sky  had  flushed  to  a  fiery  purple  behind 


94  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

the  turrets  of  Brambletye.  A  mysterious  glow 
trembled  on  the  ivy.  The  birds  were  twittering 
restlessly,  and  every  now  and  then  a  robin  uttered 
his  harsh  signal  note.  Nigel  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  You  mustn't  be  late  home,  or  your  parents  will 
get  anxious." 

"  We've  had  such  a  ripping  picnic — better  than 
if  I'd  gone  to  Fairwarp." 

"  I've  been  dull  company  for  you,  I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  no — indeed  not!  I've  so  enjoyed  talking 
to  you  about  school." 

Nigel  smiled  at  her. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  meet  and  talk  about  school 
another  day." 

«  Yes — I  expect  we  can.  I'm  generally  alone, 
you  see." 

"  Haven't  you  any  friends  ?  " 

"  I've  heaps  at  school — but  they  all  seem  so  far 
away." 

He  was  wheeling  her  bicycle  up  the  lane,  and 
the  sun,  struggling  through  the  clouds  at  last,  flung 
long  shadows  before  them.  In  summer  the  lanes 
are  often  ugly,  white  and  bare,  but  in  autumn  they 
share  the  beauty  of  the  fields.  This  lane,  delicately 
slimed  with  Sussex  mud,  wound  a  soft  gleaming 
brown  between  the  hedges,  except  where  the  rain- 
filled  ruts  were  crimson  with  the  sky. 

"  It's  only  four  miles  to  Shovelstrode,"  said 
Nigel.  "  I'll  wheel  your  bicycle  to  Wilderwick 
corner — you  won't  mind  going  the  rest  of  the  way 
alone,  will  you? — it's  not  more  than  a  hundred 
yards,  and  I  shall  have  to  go  down  Wilderwick 


BRAMBLETYE  95 

hill  and  make  a  bolt  across  country  if  I'm  to  be 
home  in  time." 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you." 

"  Oh,  no — I've  enjoyed  every  moment  of  it." 

"  So  have  I.  That  man  Furlonger  did  me  a  good 
turn  after  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

"Well,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  I'd  never  have 
met  you." 

"Furlonger  .  .  ." 

"  Yes — he  was  the  man  who  was  bothering  me 
at  East  Grinstead  Station,  at  least  my  people  say 
it  must  have  been.  He  came  out  of  prison  that 
day,  you  know." 

"  Oh  .  .  ." 

"  Have  you  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I— I  know  him  slightly." 

"  He's  a  dreadful  man,  isn't  he?  " 

Nigel  licked  his  lips. 

"  Yes — he's  a  rotter.  But  he — he  has  his  good 
points — all  men  have." 

"  I  don't  seen  how  a  man  like  Furlonger  can.  He 
seems  bad  all  around.  I  wonder  you  care  to  know 
him." 

"  I  don't  care— I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  suppose  you  knew  him  before  he  went  to 
gaol." 

"  Yes — and  unluckily  I  can't  drop  him  now." 

"  I  should." 

Nigel  stared  at  her,  and  suddenly  felt  angry. 

"  Why,  you  hard-hearted  little  girl?  " 

"  He's  bad  all  through — father  says  so." 


96  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Your  father  doesn't  know  him.  I  do,  and  I 
say  he  has  his  good  points." 

"  Are  you  very  fond  of  him?  " 

"  No— I'm  not." 

"  Then  why  do  you  stick  up  for  him  so?  You're 
quite  angry." 

"  No— no,  I'm  not  angry.  But  I  hate  to  hear  you 
speaking  so  harshly  and — ignorantly." 

"  I  have  my  ideals,"  said  Tony,  with  a  primi- 
tive attempt  at  loftiness.  "  A  woman  should 
have  clearly  defined  ideals  on  morals  and  things." 

Nigel  could  not  suppress  a  smile. 

"  Certainly — but  it's  no  good  having  ideals 
unless  you're  able  to  forgive  the  people  who  don't 
come  up  to  'em.  Perhaps  it  isn't  their  fault — per- 
haps it's  yours." 

"Mine!  What  are  you  talking  about?  Are  you 
trying  to  make  out  that  I'm  to  blame  for  a  man 
like  Furlonger  going  to  gaol  ?  " 

"  No — of  course  not.  But  suppose  that  man  Fur- 
longer  stood  before  you  now,  and  asked  you  to  help 
him,  and  be  his  friend,  and  give  him  a  hand  out  of 
the  mud — what  would  you  do  ?  " 

She  was  a  little  taken  aback  by  his  eagerness. 
She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I'd  tell  him  to  go  to  a  clergyman " 

"Oh!"  said  Nigel  blankly. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY IN  DIFFERENT  WAYS 

TONY  STRIFE  reached  Shovelstrode  in  a  state  of 
reckless  and  sublime  uncertainty.  She  was  quite 
uncertain  as  to  whether  she  meant  to  confess  or 
not.  Precedent  urged  her  to  do  so.  Whenever 
she  did  something  of  which  she  was  not  sure  her 
parents  would  approve,  it  was  part  of  her  code  to 
confess  it.  Quite  possibly  her  people  would  not 
blame  her,  they  might  even  be  grateful  to  Mr. 
Smith,  as  they  had  been  on  a  former  occasion.  On 
the  other  hand,  they  might  shake  their  heads  at 
the  picnic  part  of  the  business.  Who  was  Mr. 
Smith,  that  he  should  go  picnicing  with  their 
daughter? — and  she  would  not  be  so  confident  in 
answering  as  she  had  been  before. 

During  their  short  interview  on  East  Grinstead 
platform  it  had  not  been  possible  to  take  more 
than  a  superficial  view  of  him,  either  with  eyes  or 
mind;  but  the  close  contemplation  at  Brambletye 
had  impressed  her  with  the  conviction  that  he  was 
"  rather  queer."  He  evidently  did  not  belong  to 
their  set;  not  because  he  was  poor — they  knew 
several  people  who  were  poor — but  because  of  a 
certain  alien  quality  she  could  not  define.  It  was 
not,  either,  because  he  was  not  a  "  gentleman," 
though  she  had  her  occasional  doubts  of  that, 
alternating  with  savage  contempt  for  them.  It  was 
because  his  manner,  his  look,  his  behaviour,  had 
all  been  utterly  different  from  what  she  was  used 
7  97 


98  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

to,  or  had  met  at  Shovelstrode.  She  felt  that  if 
her  parents  were  to  question  her  searchingly,  her 
answers  would  be  unsatisfactory,  and  she  would 
not  be  allowed  to  meet  him  again,  as  he  had  sug- 
gested. And  she  wanted  to  meet  him  again;  he 
had  interested  her,  he  had  attracted  her  by  that 
very  "  queerness  "  with  which  he  had  occasionally 
repelled  her.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  more  about 
her  school,  to  have  more  of  his  strange  confi- 
dences, hear  more  from  him  about  Furlonger,  see 
again  that  hunted  look  in  his  eyes.  Only  one  of 
her  memories  of  him  was  tender — that  was  when 
his  infinite  suffering  had  called  to  her  out  of  his 
eyes,  and  she  had  answered  it  in  a  sudden  new 
and  divine  surge  of  pain.  She  caught  her  breath 
sharply  as  she  went  into  the  house. 

Yes — she  had  decided  at  last — she  would  keep 
her  secret — her  first  of  any  importance.  She  would 
not  risk  interference  with  what  looked  like  a  glowing 
adventure  kindled  to  brighten  her  exile.  Besides, 
there  was  another  consideration.  If  Awdrey  were 
to  hear  of  it,  she  would  at  once  begin  to  weave  one 
of  her  silly  romances — make  out  Mr.  Smith  was  in 
love.  Ugh!  Tony's  shoulders  shrugged  high  in 
disdain. 

It  would  be  quite  easy  to  give  an  account  of  her 
afternoon  which  did  not  include  her  adventure. 
She  would  tell  how  her  tyre  had  punctured,  how 
she  had  tried  in  vain  to  mend  it,  and  had  at  last 
come  home  on  foot.  Her  concealment  did  not 
afflict  her,  as  she  had  at  first  imagined.  On  the 
contrary,  it  gave  her  a  strange,  new  feeling  of 
importance  and  independence.  For  the  first  time 


SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY  99 

a  certain  warmth  and  colour  crept  into  her 
thoughts,  a  certain  pride  invaded  the  shy  dignity 
of  her  step. 

That  night  she  dreamed  that  she  had  gone  to 
meet  Mr.  Smith  at  Brambletye.  She  saw  the  two 
capped  turrets  against  a  background  of  shimmering 
light.  Mr.  Smith  took  her  hand  and  looked  into 
her  eyes  in  that  strange,  troubled  way  which  called 
up  as  before  an  answering  pain.  He  said  some- 
thing she  could  not  remember  when  she  woke. 
Then  suddenly  a  dark  shape  seemed  to  rush  be- 
tween them  and  whirl  them  apart.  She  cried  out, 
and  Mr.  Smith  seemed  to  be  answering  her  from  a 
great  distance :  "  Don't  be  frightened — it's  only 
Furlonger — it's  only  Furlonger."  But  the  fear 
grew  upon  her,  the  darkness  wrapt  her  round,  and, 
struggling  in  the  darkness,  she  awoke. 

All  that  day  she  wondered  if  she  would  meet 
him.  She  prowled  round  Shovelstrode  with  her 
dog,  ignoring  an  invitation  from  Awdrey  to  "  come 
for  a  stroll,  and  hear  the  latest  about  Captain  le 
Bourbourg."  She  was  used  to  being  alone  during 
her  holidays.  It  was  her  habit  to  walk  with  Prince 
in  the  little  twisting  lanes  round  her  home.  She 
never  went  far,  but  she  used  to  spend  long  hours 
in  the  fields,  gathering  wild  flowers  and  leaves  for 
her  collection,  or  making  Prince  go  racing  in  the 
grass.  A  rather  forlorn  little  figure,  she  had  gone 
through  the  days  unconscious  of  her  forlornness. 
But  to-day  she  felt  it — because  she  was  expecting 
some  one  who  did  not  come.  She  did  not  meet 
him  in  any  of  those  thick-rutted  lanes,  nor  in  Swites 


100  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Wood,  nor  on  the  borders  of  Holtye  Common 
where  she  went  for  blackberries. 

She  began  to  wonder  if  he  would  ever  come,  or 
if  her  glimpse  of  a  world  beyond  the  strait  boun- 
daries of  her  life  had  been  but  a  flash — a  sudden 
haze  of  gold  in  the  ruins  of  Brambletye.  She  felt 
her  loneliness,  the  blank  of  having  no  one  to 
speak  to  about  school,  the  strange  tickling  interest 
of  confidences  outside  her  experience.  That  night 
as  she  knelt  by  the  bed  and  watched  the  moon  behind 
the  pines,  she  added  to  her  prayers  a  stiff  petition 
that  she  might  "  meet  Mr.  Smith  again." 

Tony's  belief  in  prayer  was  quite  mechanical, 
and  when  the  next  day  she  saw  her  shabby  friend 
on  a  stile  at  the  top  of  Wilderwick  hill,  she  in  no 
wise  connected  the  sight  with  those  few  uncom- 
fortable moments  on  her  knees. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said  simply;  "  I'm  so  glad 
to  see  you." 

Nigel  smiled  at  her.  At  first  she  had  wondered 
a  little  whether  she  liked  his  smile — to-day  she 
definitely  decided  that  she  did. 

"  I  hoped  we'd  meet  again,"  he  said. 

"  So  did  I,"  answered  the  virginal  candour  of 
sixteen. 

"  You  don't  think  me  queer,  then  ?  " 

"  Ye-es.    But  I  like  it." 

"Could  we  be  friends?" 

"Yes— rather!" 

He  held  out  his  hand.  He  was  smiling — but 
suddenly  as  her  hand  took  his,  she  saw  the  old 
wretched  look  creep  into  his  eyes,  together  with 
something  else  that  puzzled  her.  Were  those 


SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY     101 

tears?  Did  men  ever  cry?  She  found  herself 
feeling  frightened  and  vexed. 

Nigel  crimsoned  with  shame,  and  the  fire  of 
his  anger  licked  up  the  tears  of  his  weakness.  The 
next  moment  he  was  looking  at  her  with  dry  eyes 
— and,  strange  to  say,  from  that  day  his  childish 
fits  of  weeping  troubled  him  less. 

He  and  Tony  turned  almost  mechanically  down 
the  narrow  grass  lane  leading  past  Old  Surrey 
Hall  to  the  woods  of  Cowsanish.  They  did  not 
speak  much  at  first — indeed,  a  kind  of  restraint 
seemed  established  between  them.  Nigel  won- 
dered more  than  ever  what  had  made  him  seek 
her  out — this  naive,  shy,  rather  limited  little  girl. 
All  yesterday  he  had  been  struggling  with  a 
desperate  need  of  her.  He  could  not  understand 
why  he  wanted  her  so;  she  was  not  nearly  as 
sympathetic  as  Len  and  Janey,  she  was  not  so 
interesting,  even,  and  yet  he  wanted  her. 

At  first  he  had  thought  it  was  her  ignorance  of 
his  past  life  which  made  her  presence  such  refresh- 
ment— the  blessed  fact  that  with  her  he  had  a  clean 
slate  to  write  over.  After  all,  though  Len  and 
Janey  had  forgiven,  they  could  not  forget — for 
them  his  muddled  sum  was  only  crossed  out,  not 
wiped  clean.  With  Tony  he  could  start  afresh 
from  the  beginning,  not  merely  where  his  miser- 
able blunder  ended.  And  yet  this  was  not  all  that 
drew  him  to  her.  He  felt  deep  down  in  his  heart 
a  subtler,  more  compelling  attraction.  What 
brought  him  to  Tony  was  a  development  of  the 
same  feeling  that  had  made  him  catch  up  the  un- 
lovely Ivy  in  his  arms  and  find  her  sweet.  It  was 


102  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

a  fragment  of  that  strange,  new  part  of  him,  which 
had  been  born  in  prison,  and  frightened  Len  and 
Janey — the  child. 

He  could  not  remember  that  before  his  dark 
years  he  had  felt  particularly  young  for  his  age, 
or  cared  for  young  society;  but  now  his  heart 
seemed  full  of  irrepressible  torrents  of  youth.  He 
wanted  to  be  with  boys  and  girls,  to  hear  their 
shouts,  to  share  their  laughter,  to  join  in  their 
games — not  as  a  "  grown-up,"  but  as  one  of  them- 
selves. Why  did  every  one  expect  him  to  have 
grown  old  in  prison?  Sorrow  does  not  always 
make  old,  it  often  makes  young.  It  sends  a  man 
back  pleading  to  the  forgotten  days  of  his  youth, 
struggling  to  recapture  them  once  more,  and  bring 
their  carelessness  into  his  awful  care. 

To-day  he  lost  his  troubles  in  finding  grasses 
and  leaves  for  Tony's  collection.  After  a  time 
her  constraint  wore  off.  She  chattered  to  him 
about  school  friends,  lessons  and  games,  daring 
adventures  and  desperate  scrapes.  That  day  he 
found  such  a  mood  more  sweet  to  him  than  any 
glimpse  of  pity  or  understanding  she  could  have 
shown.  He  might  want  her  compassion — the 
woman  in  her — sometimes,  but  only  transiently; 
what  he  wanted  most  was  the  child  in  her,  for  it 
answered  the  sorrow-born  child  crying  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  heart. 

They  scrambled  in  the  hedges  for  bloody-twig 
and  bryony,  they  gathered  the  yellowing  hazel,  and 
bunches  of  strange  pods.  Nigel  was  able  to  tell 
her  the  names  of  many  plants  and  bushes  she  had 
not  known  before — he  was  wonderfully  enthu- 


SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY     103 

siastic,  and  loved  to  hear  about  the  botany  walks  at 
school,  and  the  other  collections  she  had  made, 
which  had  sometimes  won  prizes. 

It  was  past  noon  when  they  turned  home.  The 
distances  were  dim,  hazed  with  mist  and  sunshine. 
A  faint  wind  was  stirring  in  the  trees,  and  now 
and  then  a  shower  of  golden  leaves  swept  into  the 
lane,  whirled  round,  then  fluttered  slowly  to  the 
grass.  Some  rain  had  fallen  early  in  the  morning, 
and  the  hedges  were  still  wet,  sending  up  sweet 
steams  of  perfume  to  the  cloud-latticed  sky. 

Nigel  spoke  suddenly. 

"  Do  your  parents  know  about  me?  " 

"  They  know  about  East  Grinstead,  but  not 
about  Brambletye." 

"Shall  you  tell  them?" 

"  No — I  don't  think  I  shall.  I — I'm  not  at 
all  sure  what  they'd  say  if  they  knew  all  the 
facts." 

"  Nor  am  I,"  said  Nigel  grimly. 

"  Besides,  I  hate  telling  people  about  things  I 
really  enjoy — it  spoils  it  all,  somehow.  You  don't 
think  it's  wrong,  do  you  ?  " 

"No— why  should  it  be?" 

"  I  don't  know — only  whenever  a  thing's  abso- 
lutely heavenly,  one  can't  help  thinking  there's 
something  wrong  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  why  there  should  be  any- 
thing wrong  about  this.  I'm  lonely,  and  so  are 
you — why  shouldn't  we  be  friends?  " 

"  I've  never  done  anything  like  it  before.  It's 
funny  that  father  and  mother  are  so  awfully  par- 
ticular, for  they  don't  bother  about  me  much  in 


104  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

other  ways.  I'm  nearly  always  alone  when  I'm  at 
Shovelstrode.  Father's  busy,  and  mother's  not 
strong,  and  Awdrey  has  so  many  people  to  go 
about  with." 

"  And  when  you  come  back  from  a  long  walk, 
no  one  asks  you  where  you've  been,  or  whom 
you've  met  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  supposed  to  go  for  long  walks  by 
myself — only  to  potter  round  the  estate — and  no 
one  ever  asks  me  any  questions." 

Her  voice  was  rather  pathetic — in  contrast  to 
her  proud  assurance  when  she  talked  about  school. 

"  We'll  meet  again,"  he  said  impulsively. 

"  I  hope  so — I  hope  so  awfully.  To-morrow  I've 
got  to  go  over  to  Haxsmiths  in  the  car  with 
Awdrey,  but  I've  nothing  else  all  the  rest  of  this 
week.  I  wanted  father  to  take  me  to  Lingfield 
races  on  Saturday,  but  he  can't." 

"  Do  you  like  race-meetings?  " 

"  I've  never  been  to  one  in  my  life.  I  wanted 
so  much  to  go  this  time — I'm  generally  at  school, 
you  know,  and  it  seemed  such  a  good  chance;  but 
father  has  to  be  in  Lewes,  and  Awdrey's  spending 
the  week-end  in  Brighton — besides,  I  couldn't  go 
with  her  alone,  one  wants  a  man." 

"  I'll  take  you  if  you  like." 

"You!    Oh!" 

"Shouldn't  you  like  it?" 

"  I  should  love  it — but  if  any  one  saw  us  ... 
father  would  be  furious." 

"  No  one  shall  see  us — we  won't  go  into  any  of 
the  enclosures  and  risk  meeting  your  friends.  Do 
let  me  take  you." 


SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY  105 

Tony  flushed  with  pleasure  and  fright.  This 
was  adventure  indeed. 

"  I'd  love  to  go.    Oh,  how  ripping!  " 

When  Nigel  reached  home  that  morning  he  went 
straight  to  find  Janey.  There  was  something  vital 
between  him  and  his  sister — each  brought  the 
other  the  first-fruits  of  emotion.  Janet  might  find 
Leonard  a  tenderer  comforter,  more  thoughtful, 
more  demonstrative,  but  there  was  not  between 
them  that  affinity  of  sorrow  there  was  between  her 
and  Nigel.  Not  that  she  ever  told  him,  even 
hinted,  why  she  suffered,  but  the  mere  glance  of 
his  eyes,  so  childish  yet  so  troubled,  the  mere 
touch  of  those  hands  coarsened  and  spoiled  by  the 
toil  of  his  humiliation,  was  more  comfort  to  her 
than  Len's  caresses  or  tender  words.  Nigel  could 
repeat  the  magic  formula  of  sympathy — "  I  too  have 
known.  .  .  ." 

He  felt,  unconsciously,  the  same  towards  her. 
But  it  was  more  happiness  than  grief  that  he 
brought  her.  He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  eating 
his  heart  out  alone,  but  happiness  was  so  new  and 
strange  that  he  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with  it. 
So  he  ran  with  it  to  Janey,  like  a  child  to  his 
mother  with  something  he  does  not  quite  under- 
stand. 

To-day  he  found  her  in  the  kitchen,  sitting  by 
the  fire,  and  watching  some  of  her  doubtful 
cookery.  Her  back  was  bent,  and  her  arms  rested 
from  the  elbow  on  her  lap,  the  long  hands  dropping 
over  the  knees.  Her  face,  thrust  forward  from  the 


106  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

gloom  of  her  hair,  wore  a  strange  white  look  of 
defiance,  while  her  lips  quivered  with  surrender. 

He  sat  down  at  her  feet,  and  leaned  his  head 
against  her  lap.  He  vaguely  felt  she  was  un- 
happy, but  he  did  not  try  to  comfort  her,  merely 
took  one  of  the  long,  hot  hands  in  his.  She  did 
not  speak,  either — but  her  heart  kindled  at  his 
presence.  She  knew  that  he  had  been  happier  for 
the  last  two  days,  though  yesterday  he  had  also 
seemed  to  have  some  anxiety,  fretting  and  question- 
ing. His  happiness  meant  much  to  her.  All  her 
happiness  now  was  vicarious — Quentin's,  Leon- 
ard's or  Nigel's.  In  her  own  heart  were  only 
flashes  and  sparks  of  it,  that  scorched  as  well  as 
gladdened. 

Life  was  a  perplexity — life  was  pulling  her  two 
ways.  She  seemed  to  be  hanging,  a  tortured, 
wind-swung  thing,  between  earth  and  heaven,  and 
she  could  hardly  tell  which  hurt  her  most — her 
sudden  falls  down  or  her  sudden  snatchings  up. 
Earth  and  heaven,  brute  and  god,  were  always 
meeting  now,  clashing  like  two  ill-tuned  cymbals. 

Her  shame  was  that  her  love  and  Quentin's  had 
not  been  strong  enough  to  wait.  She  had  looked 
upon  it  as  an  exalted  spiritual  passion,  and  it  had 
suddenly  shown  itself  impatient  and  bodily.  It 
had  fallen  to  the  level  of  a  thousand  other  loves. 
Sometimes  she  almost  wished  that  it  had  been  a 
more  despised  lover  who  had  won  her  surrender 
— better  fall  from  the  trees  than  from  the  stars. 

Moreover,  her  sacrifice  had  not  won  her  what 
she  was  seeking,  but  something  inferior  and  make- 
shift. What  she  had  dreamed  of  as  the  crown  of 


SOME  PEOPLE  ARE  HAPPY     107 

love  had  been  a  life  of  kingly,  fearless  associa- 
tion, the  sanctification  of  every  day,  an  undying 
Together.  That  was  still  far  away.  Borne  on  an 
undercurrent  she  had  till  then  hardly  suspected, 
she  and  Quentin  had  been  washed  into  the  back- 
waters of  their  dream.  She  had  only  one  comfort, 
and  that  was  paradoxically  at  times  the  chief  of 
her  regrets — Quentin  was  happy.  Unlike  her,  he 
seemed  to  have  found  all  he  had  been  seeking. 
She  was  still  unsatisfied,  her  heart  still  yearned 
after  higher,  sweeter  things,  but  again  and  again 
he  told  her  he  had  all  his  desire. 

"  I  am  in  Paradise — Janey,  my  own  Janey.  We 
climbed  over  the  gates,  and  we  are  there — together 
in  the  garden  " — and  his  lips  would  burn  against 
hers,  and  even  the  tears  brim  from  his  fiery,  sunken 
eyes. 

She  never  let  him  think  she  was  not  happy. 
She  meekly  and  bravely  accepted  the  vocation  of 
her  womanhood — if  he  was  happy,  all  her  wishes, 
except  certain  secret  personal  ones,  were  gratified. 
For  his  sake  she  put  aside  her  dreams,  and  fixed 
her  thoughts  on  what  was,  forgetting  what  might 
have  been.  She  broke  her  heart  like  a  box  of 
spikenard,  that  she  might  anoint  him  king. 

A  shudder  passed  through  Janey,  and  Nigel's 
head  stirred  on  her  knee.  He  lifted  it,  and  looked 
into  her  eyes — then  he  drew  down  her  face  to  his 
and  kissed  it.' 

"  You're  tired,  my  Janey." 

His  voice  thrilled  with  a  tenderness  that  carried 
her  back  to  the  days  before  he  went  to  prison. 


108  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  No,  dear,  not  tired — but  I've  a  bit  of  a  head- 
ache." 

"  I'm  so  sorry.    Oughtn't  you  to  lie  down?  " 

"  No— it  will  go." 

"  Poor  old  sister !  " 

He  put  up  his  hand  and  laid  it  gently  on  her 
forehead.  Then  suddenly  he  hid  his  face. 

"Oh,  Janey,  I'm  so  happy!" 


CHAPTER  X 

TONY  BACKS  AN   OUTSIDER 

NOVEMBER  came  in  cloth  of  gold — a  hazy  sun- 
shine put  yellow  everywhere,  into  the  bleak  rain- 
washed  fields,  the  white,  cold  mirrors  of  ponds, 
the  brown  heart  of  woods.  Lingfield  races  were 
on  the  first  of  the  month — from  noon  onwards  the 
race-trains  clanked  down  from  London,  and  dis- 
gorged their  sordid  contents.  The  public-houses 
were  full,  the  little  village,  generally  so  pure  and 
drowsy,  woke  up  to  its  monthly  contamination.  It 
was  the  last  meeting  of  the  flat-racing  season,  and 
most  of  the  "  county  "  was  present,  crowding  the 
paddock  and  the  more  expensive  enclosures,  eating 
its  lunch  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  band  too  much 
engrossed  in  the  betting  for  the  interests  of  good 
music. 

Nigel  Furlonger  met  Tony  Strife  at  the  top  of 
Wilderwick  hill.  He  had  dressed  himself  with 
more  care  than  usual — in  the  girl's  interest  he  must 
look  respectable.  Leonard  and  Janet  had  been 
immensely  surprised  when  he  told  them  he  meant 
to  go  to  the  races.  The  Furlonger  disreputable- 
ness  owed  some  of  its  celebrity  to  the  fact  that  it 
ran  along  channels  of  its  own,  neglecting  those 
approved  by  wealth  and  fashion. 

"  Feel  you've  got  too  much  cash  ? "  jeered 
Leonard. 

"  I  shan't  do  any  betting  to  speak  of." 

"  Don't  you !  "  said  Janey ;  "  we're  stony  enough 
as  things  are." 

109 


110  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  But  I'm  not  bound  to  lose — I  may  win,  and 
retrieve  the  family  fortunes." 

"  Look  here,  my  boy,"  said  Len,  "  you  leave  the 
family  fortunes  alone.  You've  done  too  much  in 
that  line  already." 

Nigel  coloured  furiously — but  the  next  moment 
his  anger  cooled;  he  had  been  wonderfully  gentler 
during  the  last  few  days.  He  turned,  and  emptied 
his  pockets  on  the  table. 

"  There — take  it  all — except  five  bob  for  luck — 

and  a  half-crown  for "  He  was  going  to  have 

said  "  the  little  girl's  tea,"  but  stopped  just  in  time. 

He  occasionally  wondered  why  he  did  not  tell 
Len  and  Janet  about  Tony.  But  he  felt  doubtful 
as  to  what  they  might  say.  They  would  never 
understand  how  he  could  find  such  a  comradeship 
congenial.  Tony  was  only  sixteen,  and  lived  a 
very  different  life  from  his.  They  might  laugh — • 
no,  they  would  not  do  that ;  more  likely  they  would 
be  anxious  and  compassionate,  they  would  think  it 
one  of  the  unhealthy  results  of  prison,  they  would 
be  sorry  for  him,  and  he  could  not  bear  that  they 
should  be  sorry  for  what  brought  him  so  much 
happiness.  Besides,  he  had  a  natural  habit  of 
reserve — even  before  he  went  to  prison  he  had  kept 
secrets  from  Len  and  Janey. 

Tony  was  waiting  for  him  when  he  reached  their 
meeting-place.  She  wore  a  plain  dark  coat  and 
skirt,  but  she  had  put  on  a  wide  hat,  with  a  wreath 
of  crimson  leaves  round  it,  and  instead  of  plaiting 
her  hair,  she  let  it  stream  over  her  shoulders,  thick 
and  sleek,  without  a  curl.  In  her  hand  she  clutched 
a  little  purse. 


TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER  111 

"  I'm  going  to  bet  on  a  horse,"  she  said  in  an 
awe-struck  voice. 

"Which  horse?" 

"  I  don't  know.    I'll  see  when  I  get  there." 

"  I'll  try  and  find  something  pretty  safe  for  you, 
and  I'll  have  my  money  on  it  too." 

"Isn't  it  exciting!"  whispered  Tony.  "What 
should  I  do  if  I  met  Mrs.  Arkwright  or  any  of  the 
mistresses !  " 

Mrs.  Arkwright  and  the  mistresses  were  not  the 
people  Furlonger  dreaded  to  meet. 

He  and  Tony  swung  gaily  along  the  cinder- 
track  leading  to  the  course.  It  was  deserted., 
except  for  a  little  knot  at  the  starting  gate.  The 
girl  shrank  rather  close  to  him  as  they  came  into 
the  crowd.  The  shouting  made  her  nervous  and 
flustered — that  people  should  make  such  a  noise 
over  a  shady  thing  like  betting  seemed  to  her 
extraordinary.  She  touched  Nigel's  elbow,  and 
showed  him  her  purse,  now  open,  and  containing 
half-a-crown. 

"  Which  is  the  best  horse?  " 

"  !  wish  I  knew." 

"  May  I  look  at  the  card?  " 

He  gave  it  to  her.     She  seemed  puzzled. 

"  How  can  I  tell  which  horse  to  bet  on?  " 

A  man  beside  them  laughed,  and  Nigel  flushed 
indignantly. 

"You  can't  tell  much  by  the  card;  I'll  go  over 
to  the  ring  in  a  moment,  and  find  out  what  the 
odds  are.  But  as  you  don't  want  to  put  on  more 
than  half-a-crown,  I'd  keep  it  till  the  big  race,  if 
I  were  you." 


112  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Which  is  the  big  race?  " 

"The  Lingfield  Cup.  It's  the  last— but  we'll 
enjoy  the  others,  even  though  we've  got  nothing 
on  'em." 

They  enjoyed  them  thoroughly.  Hanging  over 
the  rail,  their  shouts  were  just  as  noisy  and  as 
desperate  as  if  they  had  all  their  possessions  at 
stake.  Tony  was  thrilled  to  the  depths — the 
clamour  and  excitement  in  the  betting  ring,  the 
odd,  disreputable  people  all  round  her,  surrepti- 
tiously exchanging  shillings  and  horses'  names — 
the  clanging  bell,  the  shout  of  "  They're  off ! "  the 
flash  of  opera-glasses,  the  mad  rush  by,  the  cheers 
for  the  winner  ...  all  plunged  her  into  an  orgy 
of  excitement.  She  felt  subtly  wicked  and  daring, 
and  also,  when  Nigel  began  to  explain  the  techni- 
calities of  racing,  infinitely  worldly-wise.  What 
would  the  girls  at  school  say  when  they  found  out 
she  knew  the  meaning  of  "  Ten  to  one,  bar  one," 
or  "  Money  on  both  ways "  ?  She  wrote  such 
phrases  down  in  her  "  nature  note-book,"  which 
she  carried  about  with  her  to  record  botanical  dis- 
coveries, birds  seen,  sunsets,  and  equally  blameless 
doings. 

At  last  the  time  came  for  the  Lingfield  Cup. 
Tony's  hands  began  to  quiver.  Now  was  the 
moment  when  she  should  actually  become  a  part 
of  that  new  world  swinging  round  her.  She  would 
have  her  stake  in  the  game — and  a  big  stake  too, 
for  half-a-crown  meant  more  than  a  fortnight's 
pocket-money.  She  looked  nervously  at  Mr. 
Smith. 


TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER  113 

"  We'll  see  'em  go  past  before  we  put  our  money 
on,"  said  he,  with  a  calmness  she  thought  un- 
natural. "  You  can  tell  a  lot  by  the  way  a  horse 
canters  up." 

They  leaned  over  the  rail,  and  Tony  gave  a  little 
cry  at  the  first  sight  of  colours  coming  from  the 
paddock. 

"  Here  they  are — oh,  what  a  beautiful  horse!  " 

"  A  bit  short  in  the  leg,"  said  Nigel,  "  we  won't 
put  our  money  on  him." 

"  What  about  that  bay — the  one  coming  now?  " 

"  He's  a  good  'un,  I  should  say.  That's  Milk-O, 
the  favourite." 

"  Let's  back  him." 

"  Wait,  here's  another.  That's  Midsummer 
Moon,  the  betting's  100  to  I  against  him." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  he's  a  rank  outsider." 

"  Then  we  mustn't  put  our  money  on  him." 

"  I've  known  outsiders  win  splendidly,  and,  of 
course,  if  they  do,  their  backers  get  thundering 
odds.  If  we  put  our  money  on  Milk-O  and  he 
wins  we're  only  in  for  five  shillings  each,  but  if 
Midsummer  Moon  wins  for  us,  why,  we  get  over 
twelve  pounds.'* 

"  Oh ! "  gasped  Tony.  Her  eyes  grew  round. 
"  Over  twelve  pounds  " — that  would  mean  all  sorts 
of  splendours — a  new  hockey-stick,  a  real  spliced 
beauty  instead  of  the  silly  unspliced  thing  her 
father  thought  "  good  enough  for  a  girl " ;  she 
would  be  able  to  get  that  wonderful  illustrated 
edition  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  which  she  had 
seen  in  Gladys  Gates'  home  and  admired  so  much; 
8 


114  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

and  directly  she  went  back  to  school  she  could 
give  a  gorgeous  midnight  feast — a  feast  of  the 
superior  order,  with  lemonade  and  veal-and-ham 
pies,  not  one  of  those  scratch  affairs  at  which  you 
ate  only  buns  and  halfpenny  meringues  and  drank 
a  concoction  of  acid-drops  dissolved  in  the  water- 
jug. 

Nigel    saw    the    enthusiasm    growing    on    her 

face. 

"  Well,  would  you  like  to  put  your  money  on 
Midsummer  Moon?  Of  course  you're  more  likely 
to  lose,  but  if  you  win,  you'll  make  a  good  thing 
out  of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  win?  " 

"  I  can't  say — but  it's  a  sporting  chance." 

"  I  think  it's  worth  the  risk,"  said  Tony  in  a  low, 
thrilled  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  intently. 

"  I  always  like  to  see  any  one  ready  to  back  an 
outsider." 

"  Don't  people  generally?  " 

"  No — and  nor  will  you,  perhaps,  when  you're 
older." 

She  gave  him  her  half-crown,  and  he  dis- 
appeared with  it  into  the  crowd,  having  first  care- 
fully put  her  next  a  group  of  respectable  farmers' 
wives.  In  some  ways,  thought  Tony,  he  was  just 
as  particular  as  father.  She  wished  he  would  let 
her  go  with  him  into  the  ring. 

He  came  back  in  a  few  moments.  Then  sud- 
denly the  bell  clanged. 

"They're  off!" 

Silence   dropped   on   the   babel   almost   discon- 


TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER  115 

certingly.  Opera-glasses  flashed  towards  the  start, 
rows  of  heads  and  bodies  hung  over  the  rail,  Tony's 
breath  came  in  short  gasps,  so  did  Nigel's — he 
was  desperately  anxious  for  that  outsider  to  win. 
As  they  had  no  glasses  they  could  not  see  which 
colours  led  at  the  bend,  but  as  the  horses  swung 
into  the  straight,  there  were  shouts  of  "  Milk-O ! 
— Milk-O!" 

"  Damn  the  brute ! "  said  Nigel,  which  gave 
Tony  another  thrill  of  new  experience.  She  had 
actually  spent  the  afternoon  with  a  man  who 
swore ! " 

"Milk-O!— Milk-O!" 

"  Spreadeagle !  "  shouted  some  one.  Then  there 
were  more  shouts  of  "  Spreadeagle !  " 

"Milk-O!"— "Spreadeagle!"— the  yells  were 
deafening — then  suddenly  changed  into  a  mixture 
of  cheers  and  groans,  as  the  favourite  dashed  by 
the  post. 

"And — where's  Midsummer  Moon?"  gasped 
poor  Tony,  as  the  field  clattered  in. 

"  Never  started,  lady,"  said  a  stout  policeman, 
who,  being  drafted  in  from  elsewhere,  did  not 
recognise  Nigel  as  the  young  fellow  on  ticket-of- 
leave  who  came  to  report  himself  every  month-  at 
East  Grinstead. 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  Tony,  "we've  lost  our 
money." 

"  Never  put  your  money  on  an  outsider,  lady," 
said  the  stout  constable. 

Nigel  turned  to  her  with  an  odd,  beseeching 
look  in  his  eyes. 

"  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  I'm  dreadfully  sorry.  It's  my 


116  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

fault — if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  you'd  have  backed 
the  favourite." 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  the  very  tiniest  bit." 

"  But  I'm  so  sorry — I  feel  a  beast." 

"  Please  don't.  I've  enjoyed  myself  awfully,  and 
it's  made  the  race  ever  so  much  more  exciting, 
having  some  money  on  it." 

"  All  right !  "  had  been  sung  out  from  the  weigh- 
ing-ground, and  the  crowd  was  either  pressing 
round  the  bookies,  or  dispersing  along  the  course. 

"  We'd  better  go,  I  think,"  said  Nigel,  "  you 
mustn't  be  late  home." 

"  It's  been  perfectly  ripping,"  and  Tony  sud- 
denly slipped  her  warm  gloved  hand  into  his. 
"  It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  take  me." 

"  But  I  made  you  back  an  outsider." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  it — please  don't." 

She  gave  his  hand  a  little  squeeze  as  she  spoke, 
and  suddenly,  over  him  once  again  passed  that 
thrill  of  great  simplicity  which  he  had  experienced 
first  at  Brambletye.  He  became  dumb — quite 
dumb  and  simple,  with  infinite  rest  in  his  heart. 

They  turned  to  leave,  jostling  their  way  through 
the  crowd  towards  the  cinder-track.  Soon  the 
clamour  and  scramble  were  far  behind,  and  they 
found  the  little  footpath  that  ran  through  the  fields 
near  Goatsluck  Farm. 

"  Which  way  are  we  going  home?  "  asked  Tony. 

"  We'll  have  tea  before  we  go  home.  Will  you 
come  with  me  and  have  tea  in  a  cottage  ?  " 

'"Oh,  how  ripping! . . ." 

Nigel  looked  round  him.  A  cottage  belonging 
to  Goatsluck  Farm  was  close  at  hand — one  of  those 


TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER  117 

dwarfed,  red  cottages,  where  the  windows  gleam 
like  eyes  under  the  steep  roof. 

"  Let's  ask  there,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  we  can  have 
it  in  the  garden." 

The  labourer's  wife  was  only  too  glad  of  a  little 
incident  and  pence-earning.  She  laid  a  table  for 
them  by  a  clump  of  lilac  bushes,  now  bare.  One 
or  two  chrysanthemums  were  still  in  bloom,  and 
sent  their  damp  sweetness  to  the  meal  that  Nigel 
and  Tony  had  together.  It  was  a  very  plain  meal 
— only  bread  and  butter  and  tea,  but  simplicity  and 
bread  and  butter  had  now  become  vital  things  to 
Furlonger.  Neither  he  nor  Tony  spoke  much,  but 
their  silences  were  no  less  happy  than  the  words 
that  broke  them. 

The  sun  had  set,  a  hazy  crimson  smeared  the 
west,  and  above  it  hung  one  or  two  dim  stars.  A 
little  cold  wind  rustled  suddenly  in  the  bushes,  and 
fluttered  the  table-cloth.  Tony's  face  was  pale  in 
the  twilight,  and  her  eyes  looked  unnaturally  large 
and  dark.  Then  she  and  Nigel  realised  that  they 
were  both  leaning  forward  over  the  table,  as  if  they 
had  something  especially  important  to  say  to  each 
other.  .  .  . 

The  wind  dropped  suddenly,  and  the  fogs  swept 
up  and  veiled  the  stars.  The  crimson  deepened 
to  purple  in  the  west. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  asked  Furlonger  awkwardly, 
and  drew  back. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Tony,  and  leaned  back 
too. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  rose  to  go.  It  was  half- 
past  five,  and  strange  shadows  were  in  the  lanes, 


118  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

where  the  ruts  and  puddles  gleamed.  An  owl 
called  from  Ashplats  Wood.  The  November  dusk 
had  suddenly  become  chill.  Nigel  slipped  off  his 
overcoat  and  wrapped  it  round  Tony. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  he  insisted.  "Oh,  what  a 
funny  little  thing  you  look !  " 

"  It  comes  down  right  over  my  heels — it's  rip- 
ping and  warm." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  Then  the  distant  throbbing  of  a  car 
troubled  the  evening.  It  drew  nearer,  and  they 
stood  aside  to  let  it  pass  them  in  the  narrow  lane. 

But  instead  of  passing,  it  pulled  up  suddenly,  and 
out  jumped  Sir  Gambier  Strife. 

Their  surprise  and  dismay  were  so  great  that 
for  a  time  they  could  not  use  their  tongues.  Sir 
Gambier  stood  before  them,  his  face  flushed,  his 
mouth  a  little  open,  while  the  dusk  and  the  arc- 
lights  of  the  huge  motor  had  games  with  his  figure, 
making  it  seem  monstrous  and  misshapen. 

"  Father "  began  Tony,  and  then  stopped. 

She  was  really  the  least  disconcerted  of  the  three, 
for  she  had  only  Mr.  Smith  to  deal  with — surely 
the  presence  of  such  a  knight  could  easily  be 
explained  and  forgiven.  But  the  other  two  had  to 
face  the  complication  of  Furlonger. 

"What  the "  broke  from  Strife,  after  the 

time-honoured  formula  of  the  man  who  wants  to 
swear,  but  objects  on  principle  to  swearing  before 
women. 

The  colour  mounted  on  Nigel's  face,  from  his 
neck  to  his  cheeks,  from  his  cheeks  to  his  forehead 
— and  gradually  his  head  drooped. 


TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER  119 

Tony  turned  to  him  with  sublime  assurance. 

"  Father,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Smith." 

"Smith!" 

Nigel  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  the  words 
stuck  to  his  tongue. 

"  You  know  about  Mr.  Smith,"  continued  Tony, 
"  how  helpful  he  was  at  East  Grinstead " 

"  He  told  you  his  name  was  Smith,  did  he  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  know  him  quite  well  now — he 
lives  at  Fan's  Court,  near  Blindley  Heath,  and  ..." 
Tony's  voice  trailed  off.  She  wondered  why  Mr. 
Smith  did  not  speak  for  himself. 

"  You  damn  liar!  "  roared  Strife,  swinging  round 
on  Nigel. 

"Father!" 

"  Sir  Gambier,  let  me  explain.  .  .  ." 

"  I  won't  hear  a  word.  Explanation,  indeed ! 
What  explanation  can  there  be? — you  victimiser 
of  innocent  little  girls! — Antoinette,  get  into  the 
car  at  once,  and  come  home.  Then  we'll  hear  all 
the  lies  this  Furlonger's  been  cramming  you  with." 

"  Furlonger  .  .  ." 

The  word  came  in  a  long  gasp. 

"  Yes — Furlonger.  That's  his  name.  '  Smith,' 
indeed!" 

"  Father,  he  isn't  Furlonger.  Furlonger  was 
quite  different,  short  and  dark  and  dirty-looking." 

"  I  tell  you  this  is  Furlonger — and  he's  quite 
dirty-looking  enough  for  me.  Come  along, 
Antoinette,  I  won't  have  you  standing  here." 

"  But  you  aren't  Furlonger — are  you,  Mr. 
Smith?" 


120  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Her  voice  rang  with  entreaty  and  the  first  horror 
of  doubt.  Nigel  turned  his  eyes  to  hers  and  tried 
to  plead  with  them;  but  they  were  not  understand- 
ing— he  saw  he  had  only  the  clumsy  weapon  of  his 
tongue  to  fight  with. 

"  I  am  Furlonger,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  a  brief,  electric  pause.  Tony  had 
grown  very  white. 

"  Then  who  was  that  other  man  ? — Why  did  you 
tell  me  your  name  was  Smith  ?  " 

"  I've  no  idea  who  the  other  fellow  was,  and  I 
gave  my  name  as  Smith  because  I  felt  sure  you'd 
have  heard  of  Furlonger." 

"  But  why— why " 

"  Come  along,  miss,"  interrupted  Sir  Gambier. 
"  I  won't  have  you  talking  to  this  scoundrel." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  why  he  told  me  all  those 
lies." 

Her  face  had  grown  hard  as  well  as  white. 

"  He  had  very  good  reasons,  I'm  sure,"  sneered 
Strife. 

Nigel  suddenly  found  his  tongue. 

"Tony!  "he  cried,  "Tony!" 

"  What  damned  impudence  is  this  ? — '  Tony  ' 
indeed!  You'll  not  dare  address  my  daughter  by 
that  name,  sir." 

"  Tony,"  repeated  Nigel,  too  desperate  to  realise 
what  he  was  calling  her.  "  I  swear  I  never  meant 
you  any  harm.  I  know  it  looks  like  it — but  you 
mustn't  think  so.  I  wanted  to  be  your  friend 
because — because  you  didn't  know  of  my  disgrace, 
you  treated  me  like  a  human  being.  You  talked 
to  me  about  simple  things — you  made  me  feel  good 


TONY  BACKS  AN  OUTSIDER  121 

and  clean  when  I  was  with  you.  That's  why  I 
'  told  you  all  these  lies/  ' 

The  girl  began  to  tremble.  Sir  Gambier 
laughed. 

"  Tony — don't  forsake  me." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  thundered  Strife.  "  I 
won't  have  any  more  of  this.  Get  into  the  car, 
Antoinette." 

He  touched  her  arm,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
responded.  She  turned  and  climbed  into  the  car, 
still  trembling,  her  head  bowed,  tears  on  her 
cheek. 

Nigel  sprang  on  to  the  step. 

"  Tony — can't  you  forgive  me  ?  I  didn't  deceive 
you  from  any  wrong  motive.  Why  do  you  look 
like  that?  Is  it  because  I've  been  in  prison? — I 
— I  suffered  there.  ..." 

"  Oh  don't !  "  gasped  the  girl,  "  don't  speak  to 
me — I  can't  bear  it.  I — I'm  so  dreadfully — 
disappointed." 

His  eyes  searched  her  face  for  some  pity  or 
understanding.  Instead  he  saw  only  horror,  pain, 
and  something  akin  to  fright. 

"Don't!"  she  repeated. 

Then  he  suddenly  realised  that  she  was  too 
young  to  understand. 

He  fell  back  from  the  step,  and  covered  his  eyes. 

Sir  Gambier  sprang  into  the  driver's  seat.  Tony 
did  not  speak  again.  Her  father  took  the  steering- 
wheel,  and  the  car  throbbed  away  into  the  dusk. 
She  made  no  protest,  and  only  once  looked  back 
— at  the  man  who  still  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
lane,  with  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN 

RATHER  to  Tony's  surprise,  she  and  her  father 
drove  in  silence.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Sir  Gambier 
was  baffled  by  his  younger  daughter.  Awdrey  he 
could  have  dealt  with  easily  enough — he  was  used 
to  Awdrey's  scrapes.  But  Tony  had  always  been 
more  or  less  impersonal — a  vague  some  one  for 
whom  one  paid  school-bills,  who  came  home  for 
the  holidays,  made  herself  pretty  scarce,  and  then 
went  back  to  school  again,  to  write  prim  letters 
home  every  Sunday.  It  was  a  new  idea  that  this 
half-realised  being  should  suddenly  show  herself 
possessed  of  a  personality  in  the  form  of  a  scrape 
— and  such  a  scrape  too !  Furlonger !  He  grunted 
with  fury,  but — as  would  never  have  been  the  case 
if  he  had  had  Awdrey  to  deal  with — he  said 
nothing. 

Once,  however,  he  looked  sideways,  and  noticed 
how  Tony  was  sitting.  Her  back  was  bent,  and 
her  arms  rested  on  her  knees,  the  hands  clenched 
between  them;  her  chin  was  a  little  thrust  forward 
into  the  darkness  through  which  they  rushed. 

At  last  they  reached  Shovelstrode.  The  moon 
was  high  above  the  pines,  and  they  seemed  to  be 
waving  in  waters  of  silver.  The  house-front  shim- 
mered in  the  white  light,  as  the  motor  pulsed  up 
to  it.  Tony  climbed  down,  and  stood  stiffly  on 
the  step. 
122 


DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN  123 

"  You'd  better  go  to  your  room,"  said  Sir 
Gambier  in  muddled  rage.  "  I — I  expect  your 
mother  will  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Tony. 

She  walked  quickly  upstairs,  went  into  her  room, 
and  sat  down  on  the  bed.  A  square  of  moonlight 
lay  on  the  floor,  and  the  moving  shadows  curtsied 
across  it.  They  and  the  pines  outside  seemed  to 
be  nodding  to  her  grotesquely  under  the  moon — 
they  seemed  to  be  mocking  her  for  her  great 
illusion  lost. 

"  Furlonger  .  .  ."  she  repeated  to  herself.  "  Fur- 
longer.  ..." 

A  sick  quake  of  rage  was  in  her  heart.  Her 
feelings  were  still  confused,  but  definite  grievances 
stood  out  of  the  jumble.  This  man  whom  she  had 
thought  so  much  of — in  school-girl  language  "  had 
a  rave  on  " — had  deceived  her,  told  her  lies,  acted 
them,  and  won  by  them  .  .  .  well,  the  horrible 
thing  was  that  she  did  not  really  know  how  much 
or  how  little  he  had  won. 

But  worse  still  was  the  realisation  that  he  had 
made  her  do  unconsciously  something  she  thought 
wrong.  Like  most  girls  of  her  age  she  had  a  cast- 
iron  code  of  morals.  When  a  school-girl  sets  out 
to  be  moral,  there  is  no  professor  of  ethics  or 
minister  of  religion  that  can  touch  her — her 
morality  has  behind  it  all  the  enormous  force  of 
inexperience,  it  can  neither  stretch  nor  bend,  and 
it  breaks  only  at  the  risk  of  her  whole  spiritual 
life. 

She  was  horrified  to  think  she  had  given  her 
friendship  to  a  scoundrel,  even  though  she  had 


124  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

done  it  ignorantly.  It  was  like  befriending  a  girl 
who  cheated  or  told  tales.  For  her  his  crime  had 
no  attraction  or  interest — it  was  just  a  hideous  blot 
and  defilement.  She  had  often  heard  the  Wick- 
ham  Rubber  scandal  discussed,  and  now  store- 
housed  memories  came  to  appal  her.  Hundreds 
of  people,  most  of  them  already  poor,  had  been 
ruined  and  plunged  into  misery — widows  with 
growing  families,  elderly  spinsters  with  hard- 
gathered  savings,  poor  old  men  with  the  terror  of 
the  workhouse  closing  on  them  with  age,  had 
trusted  this  Furlonger  once  and  execrated  him  now. 
He  was  like  that  dreadful  man  in  the  Psalms,  who 
laid  wait  to  murder  the  innocent — "  he  doth  ravish 
the  poor  when  he  getteth  him  into  his  den."  And 
she  had  allowed  this  man  to  be  her  friend,  she 
had  confided  her  secrets  to  him,  she  had  dreamed 
of  him  and  prayed  to  meet  him.  .  .  .  Tony's  teeth 
and  hands  clenched,  and  her  eyes  grew  miserable 
and  hard. 

Then  she  began  to  wonder  what  had  made  Fur- 
longer  want  her  friendship.  What  had  he  and 
she  in  common?  Somehow  she  could  not  for  a 
moment  believe  that  he  had  sought  her  out  from 
unworthy  motives.  The  fact  would  always  remain 
that  he  had  wanted  her  friendship,  that  he  had  not 
given  her  a  word  which  was  not  kind  or  courteous, 
that  he  had  come  to  her  rescue  in  her  hour  of  need 
.  .  .  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes;  that  was  the 
bitterest  part  of  all — her  memories  of  his  kindliness 
and  knight-errantry — pictures  of  East  Grinstead, 
Swites  Wood,  Brambletye,  Lingfield  Park,  and 
that  little  old  cottage  by  Goatsluck  Farm.  Sud- 


DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN  125 

denly  she  found  herself  making  up  her  mind  not 
to  join  her  father  and  mother  in  condemning  him. 
She  would  take  his  part  in  the  scene  which  she  knew 
was  at  hand. 

She  soon  heard  her  father  calling  her,  and  went 
down.  He  pointed  into  her  mother's  boudoir,  a 
small  room  with  French  windows  opening  on  the 
lawn.  It  was  full  of  vague  furniture  and  vague 
mixed  colours,  and  it  seemed  to  Tony  as  if  she 
were  swimming  through  it  up  to  the  couch  where 
her  mother  lay.  It  never  struck  her  as  strange 
that  her  father  should  seem  unable  to  deal  with 
her  himself,  but  should  hand  her  over  to  this  weak 
invalid,  who  lay  with  closed  eyes  in  the  lamplight. 

"Now,  I  don't  want  a  scene,"  she  said,  without 
opening  them. 

"  Tony  won't  make  a  scene,"  said  Sir  Gambler ; 
"  she's  a  deep  one." 

"  Oh,  Antoinette,"  sighed  Lady  Strife—"  I  never 
was  so  surprised  in  my  life  as  when  I  heard  of 
your  deceit." 

"  My  deceit !  "  said  Tony  quickly. 

"  Yes — going  about  with  a  man  like  Furlonger, 
and  hiding  it  from  your  father  and  mother — don't 
you  call  that  deceit  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  he  was  Furlonger." 

"  But  you  knew  it  was  wrong  to  have  a  secret 
friendship  with  any  man  whatsoever.  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  in  a  young  girl  of  your  age 
and  position — it's  what  housemaids  do,  and  not  nice 
housemaids  at  that." 

"  Mother,"  cried  Tony,  her  voice  shaking  un- 
expectedly, "  it  was  an  adventure." 


126  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  A  what !  "  shouted  Sir  Gambier. 

His  wife  winced. 

"  Don't  startle  me,  dear.  And  let  the  child  say 
what  she  likes — I'm  glad  she  has  a  theory  to 
explain  her  actions." 

Strife  muttered  something  unintelligible,  but 
made  no  more  interruptions. 

"  Now  tell  me,  Antoinette,"  said  her  mother, 
"  exactly  how  long  you  have  known  this  man — and 
what  have  you  and  he  been  doing  together?  " 

"  Mother,  I  can't  explain.  I  know  it  sounds 
deceitful  and  caddish  and  all  that,  but  it — it  wasn't. 
It  was  an  adventure,  just  as  I've  said.  I've  done 
something." 

The  invalid  smiled  distantly. 

"  When  you  are  older  you  will  realise  the 
superiority  of  thought  to  action.  The  soul  is  built 
of  thoughts — actions  harden  and  coarsen  it.  But 
we  won't  discuss  that  now.  Tell  me  how  you  and 
he  got  to  know  each  other." 

"  He  was  the  man  who  was  so  splendid  at  East 
Grinstead  station.  He  told  me  his  name  was 
Smith,  because,  of  course,  he  didn't  want  me  to 
know  who  he  really  was.  Then  I  met  him  one 
morning  when  I  was  giving  Prince  a  run  in  Swites 
Wood,  and  then  another  time  when  I'd  punctured 
my  bicycle,  and  .  .  ." 

"  Go  on,  Antoinette." 

"  Oh,  you'll  never  understand.  But  he  was  so 
different  from  any  one  else  I'd  met.  He  spoke  so 
differently — about  such  different  things " 

"  I  can  imagine  that." 

"  But   he   wasn't   horrid,   mother — I    swear   he 


DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN  127 

wasn't.  He  was  very  quiet,  and  interesting,  and 
rather  unhappy — and  I  liked  him — I  liked  him 
awfully." 

Lady  Strife  did  not  speak,  but  her  eyes  were  wide 
open.  As  for  Sir  Gambier,  an  unheard-of  thing 
happened — he  became  sarcastic. 

"Oh,  you  liked  him,  did  you?  Found  him  a 
nice-mannered  young  fellow? — well-informed?  I 
didn't  know  you  were  interested  in  the  inner  life  of 
his  Majesty's  prisons." 

"  Father !  "  cried  Tony  sharply. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,  dear,"  said  her  mother;  "  you 
are  very  young,  and  consequently  very  inexperi- 
enced. A  grown-up  person  would  at  once  have 
realised  that  this  man's  friendship  for  you  could 
not  be  disinterested." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  that  he's  not  the  type  of  man  who  would 
naturally  want  to  be  the  friend  of  a  young  and 
innocent  girl  like  you.  He  must  have  had  some 
ulterior  motive  in  seeking  your  friendship.  You 
have  possibly  seen  no  signs  of  that  so  far,  but 
it  would  have  been  plain  enough  later." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Hush,  dear.  Your  impertinence  disconcerts 
me.  I  am  trying  to  view  the  matter  from  the  stand- 
point of  pure  thought,  and  how  am  I  to  do  that 
if  you  keep  on  rudely  interupting  me  and  drag- 
ging me  down  into  the  surge  of  human  annoy- 
ance? You  must  take  it  from  those  older  and 
more  experienced  than  yourself  that  this  man's 
motives  in  seeking  your  friendship  could  not  have 
been  disinterested.  Besides,  even  suppose  for  the 


128  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

sake  of  argument  that  they  were,  don't  you  think 
you've  been  acting  most  disloyally  to  your  father 
and  me  in  associating  with  a  man  you  know  we 
disapprove  of?  " 

"  Mother,  I've  told  you  I'd  no  idea  who  he 
really  was.  Why,  I  thought  the  other  man  was 
Furlonger.  Besides,  I  didn't  know  you  disap- 
proved of  him.  When  all  the  others  were  letting 
fly  at  him,  you  said  something  about  his  having 
a  beautiful  soul  and  sinning  more  divinely  than 
many  people  pray." 

There  is  nothing  more  irritating  to  the  Magus 
than  to  have  his  early  philosophies  cast  in  his 
teeth  by  some  one  with  a  better  memory  than  his 
own.  Lady  Strife  descended  deep  into  the  surge 
of  human  annoyance. 

"  Really,  Antoinette,  you  are  a  perfectly  exasper- 
ating child.  All  this  comes  from  trying  to  treat 
you  like  a  reasonable  being.  Your  father  said  that 
what  you  really  need  is  a  good  thrashing,  and 
I'm  inclined  to  agree  with  him  now,  though  I 
insisted  on  having  you  in,  and  discussing  things 
with  you  from  the  standpoint  of  pure  thought.  I 
shan't  waste  any  more  time  on  you — you  can  go 
back  to  your  room,  and  stay  there  till  your  father 
gets  an  answer  to  his  telegram  to  your  Aunt 
Margaret." 

"  Aunt  Maggie !  " 

"  Yes,"  cried  Sir  Gambier,  "  you're  going  to 
Southsea,  to  stay  with  your  Aunt  Maggie  till  your 
confounded  school  re-opens  or  the  crack  of  doom 
falls — whichever  happens  first.  You're  too  much 
trouble  at  home — going  about  with  a  face  like  a 


DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN  129 

plaster  saint,  while  in  reality  you're  traipsing  over 
the  country  with  men." 

"  Father,  I  wasn't  traipsing.  Oh,  please  don't 
send  me  to  Aunt  Maggie's — I  shall  die."  This  was 
that  terrible  coercion  from  outside  which  so  effect- 
ually routs  the  forces  of  sixteen. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  said  her  mother,  who  had 
climbed  back  to  her  standpoint  of  pure  thought, 
"  I  know  you  will  be  reasonable  now,  and — I  think 
I  may  be  quite  sure  of  that  too — grateful  after- 
wards. Your  father  and  I  are  really  doing  you 
a  great  kindness  in  sending  you  to  your  aunt's — 
here  you  would  never  be  free  from  the  persecutions 
of  that  Furlonger." 

"  Mother,  it  wasn't  persecutions.     I  liked  it." 

"  Antoinette,  I  shall  really  begin  to  think  you 
are  utterly  silly.  To  put  the  matter  on  its  lowest, 
most  materialistic  footing,  don't  you  realise  that 
in  associating  with  a  man  like  that  you  are  seriously 
damaging  your  prospects  ?  " 

"  My  prospects  ?  " 

"  Yes — your  prospects  of  making  a  good  mar- 
riage and  doing  credit  to  your  family.  Come, 
don't  stare  at  me  so  blankly.  You  must  realise 
that  you  are  now  approaching — if  not  actually 
arrived  at — a  marriageable  age,  and  that  you  must 
do  nothing  to  damage " 

"  But,  mother,  I  don't  want  ever  to  marry. 
Really,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  such  things.  It 
makes  me  feel — oh,  mother,  don't  you  see  it's  bad 
form?" 

"  What !  "   shrieked   her   mother,   with   extraor- 
dinary lung-power  for  an  invalid. 
9 


130  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  We  think  it  bad  form  at  school  to  talk  about 
marriage." 

Her  parents  both  stared  at  her  blankly. 

"  Well,  you  can  just  think  it  good  form  to  talk 
about  it  now,"  said  Sir  Gambier,  feeling  for  some 
vague  reason  that  he  had  said  something  rather 
witty. 

"  Your  school  must  be  an  extraordinary  place," 
said  Lady  Strife.  "  I  shall  have  to  write  to  the  prin- 
cipal— now,  don't  interrupt — I  shall  certainly  write ; 
I  won't  have  such  ideas  put  into  your  head. 
You're  quite  old  enough  to  think  seriously  of 
marriage.  Why,  I'd  already  had  two  offers  at  your 
age." 

Tony  looked  surprised.  She  was  very  fond  of 
her  mother,  but  always  wondered  how  she  had  ever 
managed  to  get  married  at  all,  and  that  she  should 
have  had  more  than  one  chance  seemed  positively 
miraculous. 

Lady  Strife  saw  the  surprised  look,  and  spoke 
more  sharply. 

"  Really,  Antoinette,  you're  no  more  than  a  great 
baby.  You  need  education  in  the  most  ordinary 
matters.  I'll  write  to  your  Aunt  Margaret,  and 
ask  her  to  get  some  eligible  men  to  meet  you. 
Now  don't  cry." 

Tony  was  actually  crying.  She  was  generally 
as  chary  and  ashamed  of  tears  as  a  boy. 

"  I — I  can't  help  it.  Oh,  mother,  don't  send  me 
to  Aunt  Maggie's.  Oh,  don't  make  her  ask  el-el- 
eligible  m-men." 

"  Don't  be  a  blithering  idiot !  "  shouted  Sir  Gam- 


DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN  131 

bier.  "If  you  can't  control  yourself,  go  upstairs  and 
begin  packing  at  once." 

Tony  went  out,  crying  into  a  handkerchief 
stained  with  blackberry  juice.  Her  demoralisation 
was  complete. 

Awdrey,  who  had  been  lurking  uneasily  in  the 
dining-room,  came  out  as  the  boudoir  door  opened 
and  slammed,  and  for  a  moment  stood  horrified  at 
the  sight  of  her  sister. 

"Hullo,  Tony!  Whenever  did  I  last  see  you 
cry?  What's  the  matter,  old  girl?  " 

"  M-Mother  thinks  I'm  old  enough  to-to  b-be 
married." 

"  To  whom?  "  shrieked  Awdrey,  all  agog  at  once. 

"  Nobody — only  some  el-eligible  men  at — at  Aunt 
Maggie's." 

"  What  rot  you're  talking.  Hasn't  any  one 
ased  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Then  what  on  earth's  all  the  row  about  ?  It's 
only  natural  mother  should  want  you  to  be  married 
some  day." 

"  But — but  I've  sworn  never  to  marry." 

"  Ah,"  said  Awdrey  knowingly,  as  she  tramped 
upstairs  beside  her  sister;  then  in  a  gentler  voice, 
"  Why  can't  you  marry  him?" 

"Who's 'him'?" 

"  Why,  the  man  who  made  you  swear  not  to 
marry." 

"  It  wasn't  a  man — it  was  a  g-girl,"  and  Tony's 
tears  burst  out  afresh,  as  she  remembered  how 
she  and  Gladys  Gates  had  sworn  to  each  other 
never  to  marry,  but  always  to  live  together,  and 


132  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

had  solemnly  divided  and  eaten  a  lump  of  sugar  in 
ratification  of  the  covenant. 

Awdrey  was  speechless  with  disgust,  but  she 
went  with  Tony  into  her  room,  because  she  had 
not  yet  found  out  what  she  primarily  wanted  to 
know. 

"  You're  an  extraordinary  kid,  Tony — I  really 
should  call  you  only  half  there.  You  kick  up  all 
this  ridiculous  fuss  at  the  mere  mention  of  mar- 
riage, and  yet  you  go  about  with  a  man  like 
Furlonger.  Oh  yes,  I  know  all  about  it.  Father 
was  bawling  loud  enough  for  every  one  this  side  of 
the  Channel  to  hear." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  didn't  know  he  was  Furlonger. 
Besides,  he  didn't  want  me  to  marry  him.  He 
wouldn't  dream  of  suggesting  such  a  thing." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  quite  sure  of  that.  But  you  don't 
tell  me  your  relations  with  him  were  entirely 
platonic." 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  You  mean  to  say  he  never  even  kissed  you?  " 

"  Kissed  me !— of  course  not ! — how  dare  you, 
Awdrey!" 

"  My  dear  child,  you  play  the  injured  innocence 
game  very  well,  but  when  you  make  out  you  don't 
know  what  sort  of  man  Furlonger  is,  you're  carry- 
ing it  a  bit  too  far." 

"  Of  course,  I  know  he's  been  in  prison,"  and 
Tony  sobbed  drily,  "  but  as  for  kissing  me,  I'm  sure 
he's  not  as  bad  as  that." 

"Are  you  trying  to  be  funny?"  asked  Awdrey 
sharply. 


DISILLUSION  AT  SIXTEEN  133 

Tony  only  sniffed  in  reply,  and  her  sister's  gaze 
wandered  round  the  windy,  austere  room,  resting 
on  the  few  photographs  of  school-girl  friends  on 
the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  suppose  you're  in  earnest,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause,  "  but  really,  you're  the  weirdest  thing,  even 
in  flappers,  I've  ever  met.  Perhaps  in  time  you'll 
realise  that  even  such  a  heinous  crime  as  a  kiss  is 
a  degree  better  than  robbing  a  few  score  poor 
widows  of  their  savings." 

Tony  stopped  crying  suddenly,  and  a  quiver 
passed  through  her.  The  expression  of  her  eyes 
changed. 

"  Awdrey — I — I  think  I'd  like  to  be — alone — to 
do  my  packing." 

Half-an-hour  later  Tony's  boxes  were  still  empty, 
except  for  a  foundation  layer  of  the  school-girl 
photographs.  The  bed  and  chairs  were  littered 
with  underclothing,  shoes,  hats,  books  and  frocks. 
Tony  sat  on  the  floor,  staring  miserably  in  front 
of  her  with  tear-blind  eyes  that  did  not  notice  the 
surrounding  confusion,  so  intent  were  they  on  the 
litter  of  a  broken  dream.  Her  dream,  once  so  joy- 
ful, fresh  and  iridescent,  was  now  a  mere  jumble 
of  shards.  She  had  defended  Furlonger  against 
her  parents  and  her  sister,  but  it  had  been  the  last 
effort  of  which  her  bleeding  heart  was  capable. 
Her  hero  and  his  epic  had  now  broken  up  into  a 
terrible  shatter  of  disillusion,  to  which  her  mother 
and  Awdrey  had  added  the  most  humiliating  dust. 
She  could  not  think  which  was  worse — the  motives 
of  self-interest  attributed  by  the  one,  or  the  love- 


134  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

motives  attributed  by  the  other.  And  though  she 
denied  both,  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  was  a  far 
worse  accusation.  Her  stainless  champion  was  a 
criminal,  a  false  swearer,  a  defrauder  of  the  help- 
less, a  devourer  of  widows'  houses.  He  had  not 
sinned  against  her  in  the  way  her  family  imagined, 
but  in  a  far  more  horrible,  subtle  way  .  .  .  she 
shuddered,  sickened  and  shrank. 

All  the  same  she  was   glad  that  when  others 
accused  him  she  had  taken  his  part. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CHILDREN  DANCING  IN  THE  DUSK 

NIGEL  was  late  for  supper  that  evening.  He 
came  in  very  quietly,  and  slipped  into  his  place 
without  a  word.  He  had  very  little  to  say  about 
the  races. 

"  Lost  your  money  on  Midsummer  Moon?  "  said 
Leonard.  "  Well,  you  needn't  look  so  glum — it  was 
only  five  bob." 

But  Janey  knew  that  was  not  the  matter,  though 
she  knew  nothing  more.  After  supper  she  put  her 
arm  through  his,  and  drew  him  out  into  the  garden. 
They  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  Sparrow 
Hall.  At  first  she  had  meant  to  ask  him  questions, 
but  soon  she  realised  that  the  questions  would  not 
come — only  a  great  stillness  between  her  and 
Nigel,  and  a  fierce  clutch  of  their  hands.  They 
walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  breathing  the 
thick  scents  of  the  garden — touched  with  autumn 
rottenness,  sodden  with  rain  and  night.  Gradually 
they  pulled  each  other  closer,  till  she  felt  the  throb 
of  his  heart  under  her  hand.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  Nigel  worked  hard  with  Len  at 
weed-burning.  It  was  strange  what  a  lot  of  weed- 
burning  there  was  to  do,  thought  he — not  only  at 
Sparrow  Hall,  but  at  Wilderwick,  and  Swites 
Farm,  and  Golden  Compasses,  and  the  Two-Mile 
Cottages,  and  all  those  places  from  which  little 
curls  of  blue,  dream-scented  smoke  were  drifting 

135 


136  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

up  against  the  sky.  Men  were  burning  the  tangles 
of  their  summer  gardens,  they  were  piling  into 
the  flame  those  trailing  sweets,  now  dead.  For 
autumn  was  here,  and  winter  was  at  hand,  and 
a  few  dead  things  that  must  be  burnt  were  all  that 
remained  of  June. 

Nigel  wondered  if  his  June  had  not  gone  too, 
and  if  he  had  not  better  burn  at  once  those  few 
sweet,  dead,  tangled  thoughts  it  had  left  him.  He 
thought  of  the  dim  lane  by  Goatsluck  Farm,  with 
the  glare  of  two  motor  lights  on  the  hedges.  He 
saw  the  puddles  gleam,  and  Tony  erect  in  the 
trickery  of  light  and  darkness,  shapeless  in  his  coat. 
Then  across  the  aching  silence  of  his  heart 
came  her  words — "  I  can't  bear  it ! — I — I'm  so — 
disappointed." 

That  was  the  end  of  June — and  he  ought  to  have 
expected  it.  His  friendship  with  Tony  Strife  could 
never  have  lasted  in  a  neighbourhood  where  both 
were  known  and  talked  about.  It  had  ended  a 
little  suddenly,  that  was  all.  He  did  not  reproach 
himself  for  deceiving  her;  he  did  not  even  regret 
it,  though  he  guessed  what  she  must  think.  The 
doorway  of  the  house  of  light  had  stood  open,  and 
he  had  crept  in  like  a  beggar,  knowing  that  he 
must  soon  be  turned  out,  but  resolute  meanwhile 
to  bask  and  be  glad. 

But  he  wished  she  had  not  been  "  disappointed," 
that  was  so  pathetic.  Poor  little  girl!  the  memory 
of  him  would  eat  into  her  heart  for  a  while.  Girls 
of  her  age  were  righteous,  and  he  had  cheated  her 
into  friendship  with  unrighteousness.  She  would 
hate  him  for  a  bit.  "  I  am  so  disappointed  " — it 


CHILDREN  DANCING  IN  THE  DUSK   137 

seemed  as  if  all  his  seething  desires  for  goodness 
and  peace  had  died  into  that  little  wail  of  outraged 
girlhood,  and  come  back  to  haunt  the  empty  house 
of  his  heart. 

During  the  first  few  days  of  separation  he  child- 
ishly hoped  that  he  might  hear  from  her — surely 
she  would  write  if  only  to  upbraid.  But  no  letter 
came.  His  coat  was  returned  the  next  morning, 
but  he  searched  the  parcel  in  vain  for  a  message. 
How  cruel  of  Tony! — and  yet  all  children,  even 
girl-children,  are  cruel.  Their  experience  of  sorrow 
is  limited  to  its  tempestuous  side — they  do  not  know 
its  aching  calms;  they  quench  their  thirst  with 
great  gulps,  and  do  not  know  the  relief  of  small 
drops  of  water.  This  was  the  price  he  had  to  pay 
for  seeking  his  comfort  in  the  gaiety  of  boys  and 
girls  instead  of  in  the  more  stable  sympathy  of  his 
contemporaries. 

The  next  two  weeks  were  heartsick  and  lonely. 
All  day  long  a  piteous  consciousness  of  Tony  was 
present  in  the  background  of  his  thoughts,  waiting 
till  night  to  creep  into  the  foreground  of  his 
dreams,  and  torment  him  with  hungry  wakings. 
Everything  that  reminded  him  even  of  her  type  was 
painful.  Little  ridiculous  things  twanged  chords 
of  plaintive  memory — a  picture  of  the  Roedean 
hockey-team,  with  their  short  skirts  and  pig-tails, 
the  demure  flappers  he  sometimes  met  in  his  walks, 
a  correspondence  on  "  moral  training  in  girls' 
schools  "  which  was  being  waged  in  a  daily  paper 
— everything  that  reminded  him  of  healthy,  grow- 
ing, undeveloped  girlhood,  reminded  him  of  Tony, 


138  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

and  made  his  heart  ache  and  yearn  and  grieve 
after  her. 

He  wandered  about  by  himself  a  good  deal  in 
the  lanes,  snatching  his  few  free  moments  after 
dusk.  He  no  longer  tramped  furiously — he 
roamed,  with  slow  steps  and  dreaming  eyes,  drink- 
ing a  faint  peace  from  the  darkness  of  the  fields. 
He  found  comfort,  too,  in  his  fiddle,  and  every 
evening  he  would  play  through  his  banal  repertory, 
"O  Caro  Nome,"  from  Rigoletto,  "  I  Dreamt  I 
Dwelt  in  Marble  Halls,"  the  overtures  to  Zampa  and 
La  Gazza  Ladra,  the  Finale  from  Lucia  di  Lam- 
mermoor.  He  became  wonderfully  absorbed  in 
his  fiddling,  and  had  recovered  a  certain  amount  of 
his  old  skill  and  flexibility. 

One  day  he  took  his  violin  to  East  Grinstead, 
as  the  sounding  post  had  fallen  down.  He  came 
back  by  a  long  road — through  Hophurst  and  New 
Chapel  and  Blindley  Heath.  He  stopped  at  the 
last  to  have  a  drink — it  was  a  dreary  collection  of 
cottages,  scattered  round  a  flat,  windswept  heath. 
There  were  ponds  in  the  corners  of  the  heath, 
and  their  waters  were  always  ruffled  by  a  strange 
wind.  Right  in  the  middle  of  the  waste  was  a 
little  house  squatting  in  its  own  patch  of  tillage, 
an  island,  a  tumble-down  oasis,  in  the  great 
dreariness. 

The  scene,  with  the  grey,  scudding  sky  behind 
it,  became  stamped  on  Nigel's  brain,  as  he  stood 
with  his  beer  in  the  pothouse  door.  It  was  one 
of  those  days  when  it  seems  as  if  our  own  hope- 
lessness has  at  last  impressed  the  unfeeling  mask 


CHILDREN  DANCING  IN  THE  DUSK   139 

of  Nature,  and  caused  it  to  put  on  the  grimace  of 
our  despair. 

One  or  two  children  were  playing  in  the  road 
in  front  of  the  tavern,  the  wind  fluttering  their 
pinafores,  and  blowing  their  clothes  against  their 
limbs.  A  little  boy  with  a  mouth-organ  was  play- 
ing a  vague  and  plaintive  tune,  to  which  two  little 
girls  were  dancing.  Nigel  stood  listening  for  some 
minutes,  till  both  the  moaning  wind  and  the  creak- 
ing tune  had  woven  themselves  together  into  a 
symphony  of  wretchedness. 

Then  he  put  down  his  beer,  and  took  up  his 
violin.  He  unfastened  the  case,  unrolled  the 
chrysalis  of  wrappings,  and  laid  the  instrument 
against  his  shoulder.  The  next  minute  a  shrill 
wail  rose  up  and  challenged  the  wind. 

The  bar  was  nearly  empty,  but  Nigel  would  not 
have  cared  had  it  been  full.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway,  his  hair  blowing  and  ruffling  madly,  his 
body  swaying,  as  he  forced  his  fiddle  into  a  duet 
with  the  wind.  He  had  never  before  tried  to 
extemporise,  his  violin  had  been  for  him  a  memory 
of  sugary  tunes,  each  wrapped  up  in  the  tinsel  of 
a  little  past — he  had  never  tried  to  wring  the  present 
out  of  it  in  a  sudden,  fierce  expression  of  the 
emotions  that  tortured  him  as  he  played.  This 
evening  he  wanted  to  join  the  wind  in  its  wailing 
race,  to  rush  with  it  over  the  common,  to  tear  with 
it  through  the  hedges,  and  sweep  with  it  over  the 
water.  He  forced  out  of  his  fiddle  the  cries  of  his 
own  heart — they  rose  up  and  challenged  the  wind. 
The  wind  hushed  a  little — fluttered,  throbbed — was 
still  .  .  .  the  fiddle  tore  through  the  silence  and 


140  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

shattered  it  ...  then  the  wind  rose,  and  drummed 
savagely.  Nigel  dashed  his  bow  down  on  the 
deep  strings,  and  forced  deep  sounds  out  of  them. 
The  wind  galloped  up  to  a  shriek — and  Nigel's 
hand  tore  into  harmonics,  and  wailed  there  till  the 
wind  was  only  puffing  and  sobbing.  Then  the 
fiddle  sobbed.  The  fiddle  and  the  wind  sobbed 
together  .  .  .  till  the  wind  swung  up  a  scale — 
up  came  the  fiddle  after  it  ...  the  wind  rushed 
higher  and  higher,  it  whistled  in  the  dark  eaves 
of  the  inn,  and  the  fiddle  squeaked  higher  and 
higher,  and  Nigel's  fingers  strained  on  the  finger- 
board— he  would  not  be  beaten,  blind  Nature  should 
not  defeat  him,  two  should  play  her  game.  The 
wind  was  like  a  maniac  as  it  whistled  its  arpeggios 
— the  casements  of  the  house  were  rattling  like 
tin,  the  trees  were  swishing  and  bending,  the  water 
in  the  ruts  of  the  lane  was  rippling,  doors  were 
creaking  and  banging,  the  fiddle  was  straining  and 
shrieking  .  .  .  then  suddenly  the  string  broke. 
Nigel  dropped  his  bow,  angry  and  defeated.  The 
duet  with  the  wind  was  over. 

Then  he  noticed  a  strange  thing.  He  had  been 
staring  blindly  and  stupidly  ahead  of  him,  all  his 
senses  merged  into  sound,  but  now  he  saw  that 
the  road  was  crowded  with  children,  and  they  were 
all  dancing — little  girls  with  their  petticoats  held 
high,  little  boys  jumping  aimlessly  in  their  clumsy 
boots.  They  stopped  as  his  hand  fell,  and  stared 
at  him  in  surprise,  as  if  they  had  expected  the 
music  to  go  on  for  ever. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  Nigel — then  suddenly  he  laughed ; 


CHILDREN  DANCING  IN  THE  DUSK   141 

they  all  looked  so  forlorn,  holding  out  their  pina- 
fores and  pointing  their  feet. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  he  said,  "  my  string's  broken,  but 
I'll  have  another  on  in  no  time." 

So  he  did — but  not  to  play  a  duet  with  the  wind. 
He  played  the  Intermezzo  from  Cavalierly,  and 
the  dance  went  on  as  raggedly  as  before.  After 
the  Intermezzo  he  played  the  Overture  to  Zampa, 
which  was  immensely  popular,  then  threaded  a 
patchwork  of  La  Somnambula,  the  Bohemian  Girl, 
La  Tosca,  and  Aida,  till  mothers  began  to  appear  on 
the  doorsteps  with  cries  of  "  Supper's  waiting." 

Supper  was  waiting  for  Nigel  when  he  appeared 
at  Sparrow  Hall.  Len  and  Janey  asked  no  ques- 
tions— it  was  pathetic  how  few  questions  they 
asked  him  nowadays — but  they  both  noticed  he 
was  happier.  He  did  not  speak  much — he  sat  in 
a  kind  of  dream,  with  a  wistful  tremulousness  in 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  His  mouth  had  always 
been  the  oldest  part  of  him — hard  in  repose  and 
fierce  in  movement — but  to-night  it  had  taken  some 
of  the  extreme  childishness  of  his  eyes.  Nigel  felt 
very  much  the  same  as  a  child  that  cries  for  the 
moon  and  is  given  a  ball  to  play  with — the  ball 
almost  makes  him  forget  that  he  wants  the  moon 
so  badly.  Those  dancing  children  had,  for  some 
strange  reason,  partly  filled  the  place  of  stalwart 
Tony  in  his  heart.  That  night  they  came  and 
danced  in  his  dreams — in  a  pale  light,  to  a  tinkling 
tune.  He  found  himself  forming  plans  for  making 
them  dance  again.  He  would  never  be  on  the  old 
footing  with  Tony,  but  those  children  should  dance 
for  him  and  help  him  to  forget. 


142  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

So  the-  next  evening  he  ivent  out  again  with  his 
fiddle,  and  played  at  Blindley  Heath.  Again  the 
children  danced — with  clumping  boots  and  high 
petticoats  they  danced  outside  the  Sweepers  Inn. 
But  this  time  he  did  not  stay  long — he  went  on 
to  Dormans  Land,  to  see  if  they  would  dance 
there.  It  was  nearly  dark  now,  and  one  or  two 
misty  stars  shone  above  the  village  roofs — the  wind 
was  heavy  with  approaching  rain  as  it  soughed 
up  the  street  towards  him.  He  did  not  stand  at 
the  inn,  but  where  the  road  to  Lingfield  joins  the 
road  to  Cowden,  close  to  the  schools.  One  or  two 
children  came  and  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  He  wants  a  halfpenny,"  said  one,  "  I'll  ask 
my  mumma  for  it." 

"  No,"  said  Nigel,  "  I  want  you  to  dance." 

The  children  giggled,  but  at  last  the  little  girl 
who  had  suggested  the  halfpenny  picked  up  her 
skirts,  and  then  it  was  not  long  before  they  were 
all  dancing  to  the  waltz  from  Traviata. 

Every  day  afterwards,  when  evening  fell,  Nigel 
took  his  violin,  and  went  out  into  the  lanes  and 
the  dark-swept  villages,  and  played  for  the  children 
to  dance.  They  grew  to  expect  him,  and  to 
clamour  for  old  tunes.  "  Give  us  the  jiggy  one," 
they  would  cry,  and  he  would  play  "  O  Caro 
Nome."  "  Give  us  the  twirly  one,"  and  he  would 
play  "  I  Dreamt  I  Dwelt  in  Marble  Halls."  But 
sometimes  he  would  not  give  them  what  they 
wanted — he  would  play  what  he  chose,  strange 
things  that  came  into  his  head  and  would  not  leave 
it  till  he  had  sent  them  wailing  into  the  dusk. 
One  day  he  played  a  duet  with  some  long  grass 


CHILDREN  DANCING  IN  THE  DUSK   143 

that  rustled  and  sighed  behind  him;  another  day 
it  was  with  a  wood,  brown  and  naked,  but  full  of 
palpitating  mysteries;  another  time  he  played  an 
accompaniment  to  the  stars  as  they  crept  timidly 
one  by  one  into  the  deserts  of  the  sky.  He  knew 
the  constellations,  and  gave  gentle,  bird-like  notes 
to  the  dim  Pleiades,  and  low,  sonorous  tones  to 
Orion,  and  heavy  quavers  to  the  Wain;  there  was 
a  sudden  scale  for  Casseopeia,  and  harmonics  for 
the  Ram.  By  the  time  he  had  finished  all  the 
children  had  gone,  and  he  was  alone  in  the  breeze 
and  darkness,  in  a  great,  grief-stricken  silence, 
which,  he  realised  painfully,  greeted  the  stars  far 
more  fitly  than  any  strivings  of  his. 

It  was  impossible  for  this  new  life  to  be  hidden 
from  the  brother  and  sister  at  Sparrow  Hall.  One 
evening  Leonard  burst  into  the  kitchen  where  Janey 
was  sitting. 

"  What  do  you  think  Nigel's  up  to  now?  " 

"What?" 

"  Playing  the  fiddle  outside  pubs  for  kids  to 
dance  to." 

Janey  gasped. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Len  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  pos.  Old  Pilcher  was  telling  me — 
the  lad  was  fiddling  away  for  an  hour  outside  the 
Sweepers  at  Blindley  Heath,  and  all  the  brats 
were  on  their  hind  legs,  kicking  up  no  end.  Janet, 
do  you  think  he's  all  there  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know — I've  been  wondering." 

"  There's  no  doubt  that  he's  been  strange  ever 
since  he  came  out  of  quod.  Poor  old  Nigel — life's 
hit  him  hard,  and  bruised  him  a  lot." 


144  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  He  was  funny  about  kids  from  the  first.  He 
took  a  tremendous  fancy  to  that  odious  little  Ivy 
Batt  who  comes  for  the  milk." 

"  I  expect  this  is  part  of  the  same  game." 

"  I  expect  it  is — but  it  hurts  me  to  think  of  it." 

She  turned  to  the  fire,  and  a  sigh  shook  her  breast 
— life  had  a  habit  of  hitting  hard  all  round. 

A  few  minutes  later  Nigel  came  in.  He  set  down 
his  violin,  and  went  over  to  the  hearth,  kneeling 
beside  Janey.  She  put  her  arms  round  him,  and 
drew  his  head  to  her  shoulder. 

"  Old  man  ...  is  it  really  true  that  you  go 
about  the  villages  fiddling  to  kids  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  like  to  see  'em  dance." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  them?  " 

"  Only  when  they  dance." 

"  What  a  funny  old  man  you  are." 

"Ain't  I,  Janey!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

KEEPING  CHRISTMAS 

EVERY  evening  the  three  Furlongers  used  to  sit 
by  the  fire  and  stare  into  it.  Len  would  sprawl 
back  in  his  chair  with  his  pipe,  and  the  other  two 
lean  forward  with  needlework  and  newspapers  and 
cigarettes.  They  seldom  spoke — the  wind  would 
howl,  and  the  shadows  would  creep,  and  the  night 
drift  on  through  star-strewn  silences.  At  last 
some  one  would  yawn  loudly,  and  the  others  laugh 
— and  all  go  to  bed. 

Len  was  worried  about  Nigel  and  Janey,  and 
usually  devoted  these  evenings  and  their  pipely 
inspiration  to  thinking  them  out  in  a  blundering 
way.  He  was  not  a  man  given  to  problems,  and 
hitherto  life  had  held  but  few.  It  was  an  added 
bitterness  that  now  his  problem  should  be  that 
brother  and  sister  who  had  always  stood  to  him  for 
all  that  was  simple  and  beloved. 

Nigel,  in  his  strange  fears,  his-  subcurrents  of 
emotion,  and  quickly  changing  moods,  reminded 
Len  of  a  horse ;  he  did  not  object  to  drawing  upon 
his  knowledge  of  horses  and  their  ways  for  the 
management  of  his  brother.  He  humoured  him, 
bore  with  him,  but  kept  at  the  same  time  a  tight 
hand — especially  when  the  boy's  seething  restive- 
ness  and  pain  found  vent  in  harsh  words  to  Janey. 
Janey  could  not  bear  harsh  words  now — she  had 
used  to  be  able  to  pick  them  off  and  throw  them 
back  in  the  true  sisterly  style,  but  now  she  winced, 
10  145 


146  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

and  let  them  stick.  Janey  perplexed  Len  as  much 
as  Nigel,  and  worried  him  far  more.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  be  growing  very  large,  and  her  cheeks 
very  hollow.  When  she  smiled  her  lips  twitched 
in  a  funny  way,  and  when  she  laughed  it  grated. 
Janey  cost  Len  many  pipes. 

The  explanation  of  Janey  was,  of  course,  at 
Redpale  Farm,  sitting  glumly  by  his  winter  fire- 
side, just  as  she  sat  by  hers.  The  love  of  Janet 
Furlonger  and  Quentin  Lowe  had  entered  on  a  new 
phase.  Quentin  was  beginning  to  be  dissatisfied. 
At  first  Janey  had  imagined  that  she  would  wel- 
come this,  but  it  did  not  come  as  she  had  expected. 
It  brought  their  love  into  spasmodic  silences.  Up 
till  then  Quentin  and  she  had  always  been  writing 
and  meeting,  but  now  he  wrote  to  her  and  met  her 
in  strange,  sudden  jerks  of  feeling.  Sometimes  he 
left  her  for  days  without  even  a  line,  but  she  could 
never  doubt  him,  because  when  at  last  they  met, 
his  love  seemed  to  burn  with  even  greater  torment 
and  fierceness  than  in  the  months  of  its  more 
regular  expression.  He  began  to  give  her  presents, 
too — a  locket,  a  ring,  a  book,  which  she  shrank 
from,  but  forced  herself  to  accept  because  of  the 
evident  delight  he  found  in  giving. 

Once  more  he  was  rambling  restlessly  and  in- 
effectively on  a  quest  for  independence.  His 
efforts  always  came  to  nothing,  partly  through  his 
own  incapacity,  but  always,  too,  through  a  sheer 
perverseness  of  fate,  thwarting  developments, 
wrecking  coincidences — so  there  really  seemed  truth 
in  his  cry  that  the  stars  fought  against  him. 

She   began   to   realise   that,   much   as   she   had 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  147 

deplored  what  looked,  like  his  permanent  satisfac- 
tion with  a  makeshift,  she  had  found  in  it  a  kind 
of  vicarious  rest.  When  anxiety  and  disillusion 
lay  like  stones  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  she  had 
comforted  herself  with  the  thought  of  the  lightness 
of  his.  Now  she  could  do  so  no  longer — she  had 
the  burden  of  his  sorrow  as  well  as  her  own  to  bear, 
and  for  a  woman  like  Janey,  this  was  bound  much 
more  than  to  double  her  load. 

Her  anxiety  about  Nigel  was  also  a  pain  that 
bruised  through  the  weeks.  He  was  decidedly 
"  queer,"  and  she  could  not  understand  his  new 
craze  for  fiddling  to  children.  Sometimes,  too, 
he  would  be  terribly  sentimental,  and  have  fits  of 
more  or  less  maudlin  affection  for  her  and  Leonard. 
At  other  times  he  would  be  surly,  and  during  his 
attacks  of  surliness  he  would  work  with  despera- 
tion, almost  with  greed,  as  if  he  longed  to  wear 
himself  out.  Then  he  would  come  in,  and  throw 
himself  down  in  a  chair,  and  sleep  the  sleep  of 
utter  exhaustion  with  wide-flung  limbs — or  he 
would  have  a  bath  by  the  fire,  regardless  of  any 
cooking  operations  she  might  have  on  hand,  or 
the  difficulty  of  heating  gallons  of  ice-cold  water 
in  a  not  over-large  kettle.  Len  would  be  furious 
with  him  on  these  occasions,  and  tell  him  that  if 
he  wanted  a  Turkish  bath  built  on  to  Sparrow  Hall 
he  had  better  say  so  at  once. 

"  I  hope  we'll  have  a  happy  Christmas,"  remarked 
Janey  rather  plaintively  to  Len  one  evening  late 
in  December. 

"Why  shouldn't  we?  "  he  asked;  he  was  kneel- 
ing on  the  hearthstone,  cleaning  her  boots. 


148  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Well,  we've  been  counting  on  it  so.  You 
remember  last  Christmas,  when  I  said  that  next 
time  we'd  have  Nigel  with  us.  .  .  ." 

"  And  we've  got  him,  haven't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  was  silent  then,  and  the  next  minute  he 
lifted  his  eyes  from  the  blacking  and  laughed  up 
at  her. 

"  There's  the  rub,  Janey.  We  don't  know  how 
Nigel  will  take  Christmas." 

"  No — he'll  probably  be  frightfully  sentimental 
at  breakfast,  and  kiss  us  both — and  then  he'll  have 
a  boiling  bath — and  then  he'll  take  his  fiddle 
and  go  out  for  hours  to  play  to  those  wretched 
kids." 

"  A  pretty  fair  prophecy,  I  should  think." 

"  He's  just  like  a  kid  himself,"  sighed  Janey. 

"  Yes — I  think  he's  getting  soft  in  that  way. 
At  any  rate,  he's  taken  an  uncommon  fancy  to  kids. 
By  the  bye,  that  girl  he  rescued  at  Grinstead  station, 
Strife's  girl,  has  come  home  for  Christmas.  I  saw 
her  out  with  her  father  this  morning,  and  she'd 
got  her  hair  up,  and  looked  years  older.  I 
expect  she'll  be  getting  married  soon.  Her  people 
will  see  that  she  settles  down  early — they  don't  want 
two  like  her  sister." 

"  What  was  that?  "  cried  Janey. 

"What?" 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  in  the  room." 

"  There's  nobody — look,  quite  empty,  except  for 
you  and  me.  You're  getting  nervy,  old  girl." 

"  Perhaps  I  am." 

He   stood   up,   and   looked   at  her   closely  and 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  149 

rather  anxiously.  Then  he  put  his  arms  round 
her. 

"  You're  not  well,  sis — I've  noticed  it  for  a  long 
time.  I  say — there's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there? 
You'd  tell  us  if  there  was,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"Of  course  .  .  .  there's  nothing,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  his  rough  hand  stroked  her  hair.  He 
held  her  to  him  very  tenderly,  he  was  always 
gentler  and  less  exacting  with  her  than  Nigel. 
Yet,  somehow,  when  she  was  unhappy  it  was 
Nigel  she  wanted  to  cling  to,  whose  strong  arms 
she  liked  to  feel  round  her,  whose  suffering  face 
she  wanted  close  to  hers.  She  wanted  Nigel  now. 

But  Nigel  had  gone  out. 

He  walked  heavily,  his  arms  folded  over  his  chest, 
his  head  hanging. 

So  she  was  back — and  she  was  grown  up — and 
she  would  soon  be  married. 

These  three  contingencies  had  never  struck  him 
before.  She  had  gone  so  inevitably  out  of  his  life, 
that  he  had  never  troubled  to  consider  her  return 
to  Shovelstrode.  She  had  stood  so  inevitably  for 
adolescence,  unformed  and  free,  that  he  had  never 
thought  of  her  growing  up.  And  as  for  marriage, 
it  had  seemed  a  thing  alien  and  incongruous,  her 
girlhood  had  been  virgin  to  his  timidest  desire. 

But  she  was  grown  up.  She  was  ready  for 
marriage,  and  most  likely  would  soon  be  married. 
He  realised  that  to  some  other  man  would  be  given, 
probably  readily  enough,  what  he  had  not  dared 
even  think  about.  A  shudder  passed  through  him, 
but  the  next  minute  he  flung  up  his  head  almost 
triumphantly.  He  had  had  from  Tony  what  she 


150  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

would  never  give  to  another — he  had  had  her  free 
thoughtless  comradeship,  and  she  would  never  give 
it  again.  She  was  grown  up  now,  and  uncon- 
sciously she  would  realise  her  womanhood,  put  up 
little  barriers,  put  on  little  airs.  He — he  alone — 
would  have  the  memory  of  her  heedless  girlhood 
innocently  displayed — he  had  what  no  other  man 
had  had,  or  could  have  ever. 

Christmas  came,  a  moist  day,  warm  and  rather 
hazy.  Janey  had  decorated  Sparrow  Hall  with 
holly  and  evergreens,  and  had  even  compounded  an 
ominous-looking  plum-pudding.  She  was  desper- 
ately anxious  that  their  first  Christmas  together  for 
four  years  should  be  a  success — she  even  ventured 
to  hint  the  same  to  Nigel. 

"  Why,"  he  drawled,  "  do  we  keep  Christmas  ? 
Is  it  because  Christ  was  born  in  a  manger  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not — how  queerly  you  talk!  " 

"  Because  that  was  why  we  kept  it  in  prison." 

"  But  we  aren't  in  prison  here." 

"  Aren't  we  ? — aren't  we,  Janey  ? — would  there  be 
any  good  keeping  Christmas  if  we  weren't?  " 

She  laughed  uneasily. 

"  Nigel,  you're  balmy.  Come  along  and  help  me 
make  mince-pies.  It's  all  you're  good  for." 

In  spite  of  her  fears,  Christmas  morning  passed 
happily  enough,  and  though  the  dinner  was  culi- 
narily  a  failure,  socially  it  was  a  huge  success.  The 
pudding,  having  triumphantly  defeated  the  on- 
slaughts of  knives,  forks  and  teeth,  was  accorded 
a  hero's  death  in  the  kitchen  fire,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  the  Dead  March  on  Nigel's  fiddle,  and 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  151 

various  ritual  acts  extemporised  by  Len  from 
memories  both  military  and  ecclesiastical.  He  was 
preparing  a  ceremonial  funeral  for  the  mince-pies, 
when  he  and  Janey  suddenly  realised  that  Nigel  had 
left  the  room. 

"  Now  where  the  devil  has  he  gone  ?  " 

Janey  sighed. 

"  Some  silly  game  of  his.  I  hope  he'll  be  back 
soon." 

"  Not  he ! — he's  probably  off  for  the  day,  to 
fiddle  to  those  blasted  kids,  if  they're  not  too  full 
of  plum-pudding  to  dance.  By  Christopher,  Janey 
— he's  mad."  . 

The  dark  was  gathering  stealthily — crawling  up 
from  the  Kent  country  in  the  east,  burying  the  wet 
winter  meadows  of  Surrey  and  Sussex  in  damp 
and  dusk  and  fogs.  In  the  west  a  crimson  furnace 
smouldered,  showing  up  a  black  outline  of  hills. 
Moisture  was  everywhere — the  roads  gleamed  with 
mud,  the  banks  were  sticky  with  damp  tangled 
grass,  and  drops  quivered  and  glistened  on  the  bare 
twigs  of  the  hedges. 

A  great  sense  of  disheartenment  was  every- 
where. It  was  Christmas  day,  and  hundreds  of 
hearths  were  bright — but  outside,  away  from 
humanity  and  its  cheerful  dreams,  all  Nature 
mourned,  in  the  curse  of  the  winter  solstice, 
drowned  in  the  water-flood.  Furlonger  had  left 
his  hearth  with  its  cheery  flames  and  loved  faces 
and  warm,  sweet  dreams  of  goodwill,  and  was  out 
alone  with  Nature,  who  had  no  warmth  nor  love 


152  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

nor  make-believe,  only  wet  winds  and  winter 
desolation. 

He  came  to  Dormans  Land.  The  blinds  were 
down,  and  through  the  chinks  he  saw  the  leap  and 
spurt  of  firelight.  He  stood  where  three  roads 
met,  and  the  wind  swept  up  from  Lingfield,  where 
the  first  stars  had  hung  their  lanterns.  He  began 
to  play — a  dreary,  springless  tune,  that  struck  cold 
into  the  hearts  of  the  few  it  reached  through  their 
closed  windows.  He  played  the  song  of  Christ- 
mas as  Nature  keeps  it — the  festival  of  life's  drown- 
ing and  despair. 

No  children  came  to  dance.  They  were  happy 
beside  their  parents,  with  sweets  and  crackers  and 
fun.  They  were  keeping  Christmas  as  man  keeps 
it,  and  drew  down  the  blinds  on  Nature  keeping 
it  outside,  and  the  lone  fiddler  who  felt  it  more 
congenial  to  keep  it  with  Nature  than  to  keep  it 
with  men. 

Nigel  stopped  playing  and  looked  around  him 
into  the  gloom.  He  felt  disappointed  because  the 
children  had  not  come  to  dance.  He  had  broken 
away  from  his  brother  and  sister  because  he  wanted 
those  dancing  children  so  badly — and  they  had 
not  come.  Perhaps  he  had  better  go  further  up 
into  the  village,  since  the  children  were  not  playing 
in  the  street  as  usual,  but  in  their  homes. 

So  he  went  up,  and  stood  between  the  church 
and  the  Royal  Oak.  The  place  seemed  deserted — 
only  a  great,  empty  car  stood  outside  the  inn. 
Nigel  began  to  play,  but  again  there  was  no 
response.  The  darkness  came  fluttering  towards 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  153 

him  from  the  back  streets  of  the  village,  and 
seemed  to  creep  right  into  his  heart. 

Then  suddenly  it  struck  him  that  he  played  too 
doleful  a  tune  for  the  children.  They  liked  lively 
airs — they  found  it  hard  to  dance  to  those  bizarre 
mournful  extempores  of  his.  So  he  started  "  O 
Caro  Nome,"  and  when  that  had  jigged  and  rippled 
to  an  end,  he  played  airs  from  Flotow's  Martha, 
and  then  his  old  favourite,  "  I  Dreamt  I  Dwelt  in 
Marble  Halls." 

The  street  was  still  empty.  From  a  cottage  close 
by  came  the  wheeze  of  a  harmonium.  He  stood 
drearily  snapping  the  strings  with  his  fingers. 
Then  suddenly  he  realised  how  ridiculous  he  was 
— playing  in  the  village  street,  in  the  damp  and  the 
cold  and  the  dark,  when  he  ought  to  be  at  home, 
eating  and  drinking  and  singing  and  joking  be- 
cause Christ  was  born  in  a  manger. 

He  turned  away — he  was  a  fool.  Why  did  he 
like  seeing  children  dance? — why  did  it  hurt  him 
so  that  they  were  better  employed  to-day?  He 
did  not  know.  His  life,  his  emotions,  his  heart, 
were  like  the  twilight,  a  dark  and  cheerless 
mystery.  He  could  not  understand  half  what  he 
felt  in  his  own  breast.  He  was  himself  only  a  child 
dancing  in  the  dusk,  to  an  unknown  fiddler  playing 
a  half -comprehended  tune. 

The  next  moment  he  heard  the  inn  door  open 
behind  him,  and  turning  round  saw  a  short,  broad 
figure  on  the  doorstep,  wrapped  in  an  enormous 
motor-coat. 

"Will  you  not  play  something  else?" 

The  words  came  heavily,  with  a  teutonic  lumber. 


154  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Nigel  saw  a  round,  florid  face,  and  dark,  very 
close-cropped  hair. 

He  hesitated — perhaps  the  stranger  was  making 
game  of  him. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  you  for  some  time, 
and  now  I  have  come  to  see  you.  I  am  surprised. 
I  do  not  think  you  are  a  beggar." 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Nigel. 

"  Well,  play  some  more." 

Again  Furlonger  hesitated.  Then  he  hoisted  his 
riddle  to  his  shoulder  with  a  short,  rather  grating, 
laugh. 

He  played  the  Requiem  from  //  Trovatore. 

There  was  silence.  The  darkness  seemed  to  pass 
in  waves  over  the  sky,  each  wave  engulfing  it 
deeper.  The  wind  sobbed  a  strange  little  tune 
in  the  eaves  of  the  inn. 

"  You  have  tortured  my  ears,"  said  the  stranger. 
Nigel  flushed  angrily — so  after  all  the  idea  had 
been  to  make  game  of  him — "  with  your  damned 
Verdi." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  You  are  too  good  to  play  Verdi." 

"Oh!" 

"  What  are  your  favourite  composers  ?  " 

"  Gounod— Verdi— Balfe " 

"  Ai !  Ai !  Ach ! "  and  the  stranger  put  his 
hands  over  his  ears. 

Nigel  was  beginning  to  be  faintly  amused. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  'em  ?  " 

"  The  matter? — they  are  dead." 

"  That'll  be  the  matter  with  us  all,  sooner  or 
later." 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  155 

"  Let  us  hope  it  will  be  sooner  for  some-of  us." 

Nigel  looked  into  the  stranger's  face,  and  again 
experienced  a  slight  shock  of  surprise.  The  eyes 
in  the  midst  of  its  florid  circumference  were 
haunted  with  despair,  grief -stricken  and  appealing. 
He  suddenly  realised  that  it  was  not  normal  for  a 
man  to  spend  Christmas  day  in  lonely  petrol 
prowlings. 

"  Play  some  more." 

"  I  can  only  play  Verdi  and  Balfe  and  those 
others." 

"  Well,  I'll  try  to  endure  it." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Furlonger,  "  what's  your 
game?  Why  should  you  want  me  to  play  when 
you  hate  my  music?  " 

"  I  hate  your  music,  but  I  like  your  playing. 
You  are  a  wonderful  player." 

"  Oh,  rats !  "  and  Nigel  felt  angry,  he  did  not 
know  why. 

"  I  repeat — you  are  a  wonderful  player.  Who 
taught  you  ?  " 

"  Carl  Hauptmann." 

"Hauptmann! — he  was  a  pupil  of  mine." 

"Then  you're  Eitel  von  Gleichroeder !  " 

"  I  am." 

Nigel  looked  interested.  Memories  of  his  life 
in  London  revived — music  lessons,  concerts, 
musical  jargon,  a  lost  world  in  which  he  had  once 
lived,  but  had  now  almost  forgotten.  He  seemed 
to  hear  Hauptmann's  strange,  coughing  laugh  as 
he  chid  his  pupil  for  what  von  Gleichroeder  had 
just  chidden  him  now — his  abominable  taste.  "  You 
are  hobeless,  hobelcss — you  and  your  Balfe  and 


156  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

your  Bellini  and  your  odder  vons."  Von  Gleich- 
roeder  he  knew  would  take  an  even  more  serious 
view  of  the  case,  as  he  had  a  reputation  for  ultra- 
modernism  in  music.  Hauptmann's  contempt  for 
Balfe  and  Bellini  he  carried  on  to  Verdi  and 
Gounod,  even  Tschaikowsky,  while  though  he  was 
obliged  to  grant  Beethoven  supremacy  with  a 
grudge,  he  passed  over  his  works  in  favour  of  those 
of  Scriabin,  d'Indy,  Debussy  and  Strauss. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  musician,  "  play  Zampa, 
play  Lucia  di  Lammermoor,  play  La,  Somnambula 
— any  abomination  you  please — but  play." 

Nigel,  with  rather  an  evil  grin,  played  Zampa. 

"  Why  do  you  like  those  things  ?  " 

"  Because  they  are  pretty  tunes." 

"  Ach ! — and  why  do  you  like  pretty  tunes  ?  " 

Nigel  stared  at  him  full  of  hostility,  then  his 
manner  changed. 

"  Because  they  remind  me  of — of  things  I  used 
to  feel." 

He  realised  dimly  that  there  was  a  subtle  free- 
masonry between  him  and  this  man.  In  a  way  it 
drew  them  together,  in  a  way  it  held  them  apart. 

"  What  you  used  to  feel.    So !  that  is  better.    It's 
your  heart  they  tickle,  not  your  ears." 
Furlonger  nodded. 

"  Do  you  play  for  your  living?  " 

"  No — I  am  a  farmer." 

"Then  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  I  play  for  children  to  dance." 

Von  Gleichroeder  looked  round,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  He  did  not  seem  particularly 
surprised. 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  157 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  play  for  grown-up 
children  to  dance?  For  fashionable  society  to 
crowd  to  hear  you,  and  gather  round  you  like 
children  round  a  barrel-organ  ?  " 

"  Fashionable  society  won't  waste  much  of  its 
time  on  me.  I've  been  in  prison  three  years  for 
bogus  company  promoting." 

"  So !  But  that  is  good.  Without  that  attrac- 
tion you  could  fill  the  Bechstein,  but  with  it  you 
can  fill  the  Albert  Hall." 

"  Gammon." 

"  Not  at  all.  My  dear  young  man,  I  see  a 
glorious  future  ahead  of  you,  if  you  will  only 
trouble  to  secure  it.  Come  to  London  and  study 
music " 

"  Please  don't  talk  nonsense." 

"  It  is  not  nonsense.  You  are  wonderfully 
gifted.  I  don't  say  you  are  a  genius,  for  you  are 
not — but  you  are  wonderfully  gifted,  and  your 
history  will  make  you  interesting  to  the  ladies. 
With  your  talent  and  your  history  and — and  your 
face,  you  ought  to  do  really  well,  if  only  some 
enterprising  person  would  take  you  in  hand." 

"  Which  isn't  likely." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — it  is  most  likely.  /  will 
do  it." 

Nigel  was  more  surprised  than  grateful. 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Do  not  be  proud.  It  is  purely  a  business  offer. 
I  expect  to  make  money  out  of  you,  and — what  do 
you  call  it? — credit.  Listen  here — if  you  cannot 
pay  my  fees,  I  will  give  you  a  year's  tuition  free 
of  charge,  on  condition  that  I  have  a  percentage  on 


158  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

your  salaries  during  the  next  five  years.  That  is 
a  generous  offer — many  a  young  man  would  give 
much  to  have  me  for  professor." 

Nigel  shook  his  head. 

"  Thanks  awfully — but  I'm  not  keen  on  it." 

"And  why?" 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  I  don't  want  to  make  my 
stinking  past  into  an  advertisement,  and  for 
another  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  prison." 

"  Prison ! — that  is  a  strange  name  for  fame  and 
big  salaries." 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  those  so  much  as  of  what 
must  come  before  them — all  the  grind  and  slavery. 
My  music's  the  only  part  of  me  that  has  never  been 
in  prison,  and  if  I  make  a  trade  and  treadmill  out 
of  it,  I  shall  be  degrading  it  just  as  I  have  degraded 
everything  else  about  me." 

"  It  will  not  be  degradation — on  the  contrary." 

"  And  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  make  myself 
a  name." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen.  I  don't  expect  you 
to  become  world-famous,  but  there  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  not  be  exceedingly  successful  in 
England,  where  no  one  bothers  very  much  about 
taste  or  technique.  Taste  you  have  none,  tech- 
nique   Lord  help  us! — but  temperament — 

ach,  temperament !  You  have  suffered — hein  ?  " 

Nigel  coloured.  He  could  not  answer — because 
he  felt  this  man  had  suffered  too. 

"Of  course,  you  have  suffered — you  could  not 
play  like  that  if  you  had  not.  Without  your  suffer- 
ing you  would  be  a  clever  amateur — just  that. 
But  now,  because  you  have  suffered,  you  are 


KEEPING  CHRISTMAS  159 

something  more.  '  Wer  nie  sein  Brod  mit 
Thranen  ass  ' — you  doubtless  know  our  Goethe's 
wonderful  lines.  So  " — and  his  dark,  restless  eyes 
looked  up  almost  imploringly  to  the  sky — "  sorrow 
has  one  use  in  this  world." 

There  was  another  pause.  The  village  was  quite 
dark  now — lights  twinkled.  High  above  the  frosty 
exhalations  of  the  dusk,  piling  walls  of  smoke- 
scented  mist  round  the  cottages,  the  stars  shone 
like  the  lights  of  celestial  villages,  dotting  the  dark 
country  of  the  sky.  The  Wain  hung  tilted  in  the 
north,  lonely  and  ominous,  Betelgeuse  was  bright 
above  Sussex,  Aldebaran  burned  luminous  and 
lonely  in  his  quarter.  Nigel  watched  the  Sign  of 
Virgo,  which  had  just  risen,  and  glowed  over  the 
woods  of  Langerish.  It  flickered  like  candles  in  the 
wind.  Then  he  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  darkness 
round  him,  and  through  it  came  the  creak  of  a 
harmonium. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  von  Gleichroeder. 

"Well?" 

"  Will  you  accept  my  offer  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"Why?" 

"  I've  given  you  my  reasons."  The  subtle  sense 
of  hostility  put  insolence  into  his  voice. 

"  They  are  no  reasons." 

"  They  are  mine." 

The  foreigner  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"So  be  it.  I  have  made  my  offer — you  have 
refused  it.  It  is  your  own  concern." 

He  took  out  his  card-case,  and  presented  his  card 
to  Furlonger. 


160  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  In  case  you  change  your  mind." 

This  was  anti-climax,  and  Nigel  felt  irritated. 

"  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  changing  my  mind." 

"Just  as  you  please,"  and  von  Gleichroeder  put 
back  the  card-case  in  his  pocket. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  added  politely. 

"  Good  evening,"  mumbled  Furlonger. 

He  turned  away,  and  walked  down  the  village 
to  where  the  foot-path  to  Wilderwick  striped  the 
fields.  At  the  stile  he  paused,  and  realised  that 
he  had  been  exceptionally  insolent. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WOODS  AT  DAWN 

NIGEL  reached  home  only  half-an-hour  before 
supper-time.  Len  and  Janey  did  not  receive  him 
cordially,  but  he  was  too  much  preoccupied  with 
his  adventure  to  notice  their  coldness  or  take  their 
hints.  He  poured  it  all  out  at  the  evening  meal 
— the  subtle  sense  of  outrage  which  for  some  un- 
known reason  von  Gleichroeder's  offer  had  stirred 
up,  contending  in  his  voice  with  a  ridiculous, 
childish  pride. 

Len  and  Janey  were  unfeignedly  surprised.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  them  that  Nigel's  playing  was 
even  tolerable — they  had  sometimes  liked  it  in  the 
distance,  that  was  all. 

"  Fancy  his  wanting  you  to  go  and  study  in 
London,"  said  Janey.  "  I'm  glad  you  refused." 

"  So'm  I." 

"  It  would  have  been  beastly  losing  you  again, 
old  man— we  haven't  had  you  back  three  months." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  me  fill  the  Albert 
Hall?" 

"  Well — er — if  you  could  really  do  it,  it  might 
be  interesting  to  watch — just  for  once  in  a  way. 
But  I  don't  see  that  it  would  be  worth  breaking  up 
the  'appy  'ome,  only  for  that." 

Nigel  would  have  liked  them  to  be  more  im- 
pressed, but  they  voiced  his  own  feelings  exactly. 

"No — nor  do  I.  Well,  I've  settled  the  old 
11  161 


162  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

geyser,   anyway — and  now   let's    forget   all   about 
him." 

Which  they  did  at  once. 

That  night  Nigel  had  restless  dreams.  He 
dreamed  he  was  playing  to  crowded  audiences  in 
great  nightmare-like  halls  that  stretched  away  to 
infinity.  The  circumstances  were  always  unfavour- 
able— sometimes  he  would  have  only  one  string  on 
his  violin,  and  sometimes  he  would  find  himself 
struggling  with  some  horrible  dream-begotten  in- 
strument with  as  many  strings  as  a  harp.  Once 
he  dreamed*  that  all  the  audience  got  up  and  danced 
a  hideous  rigadoon,  another  time  they  all  had  the 
same  face — a  dark,  florid  face  that  leered. 

Towards  morning  he  dreamed  a  quieter  dream. 
He  was  playing  in  a  very  large  place,  but  he  had 
a  rational  instrument,  and  he  was  playing  "  I 
Dreamt  I  Dwelt  in  Marble  Halls."  The  melody 
floated  all  through  his  dreams — the  same  as  in 
waking  hours,  and  yet  not  quite  the  same — celestial, 
rarefied,  wistful  in  heart  and  ears.  He  was  also 
conscious  of  a  presence — he  knew  he  was  near 
Tony  Strife;  he  felt  her  close  to  him,  and  it  was 
magic  in  his  blood.  The  melody  drifted  on — 
sometimes  pouring  out  of  his  violin,  sometimes 
seeming  to  come  from  very  far  away. 

"  And  I  also  dreamed,  which  pleased  me  most, 
"  That  you  loved  me  still  the  same  .  .  ." 

The  music  ceased  abruptly,  and  he  dropped  his 
bow,  looking  round  to  see  Tony.  She  was  not 
there;  the  great  hall  was  empty — nothing  but 


WOODS  AT  DAWN  163 

empty  seats  stretching  away  into  dimness — except 
that  in  the  front  row  of  all  sat  two  figures  huddled 
together.  He  looked  down  at  them,  and  at  first 
he  did  not  know  them,  then  he  saw  that  they  were 
Len  and  Janey,  staring  up  at  him  with  hungry, 
loving  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  woke  and  sat  up,  shivering  a  little.  It  must 
be  late,  for  the  winter  sky  was  white  beyond  the 
woods.  Yet  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  rise.  He 
lay  back,  and  folded  his  hands  behind  his  head, 
staring  out  at  the  dull  line  of  brown  that  lay  against 
the  quivering,  dawn-filled  clouds. 

Those  woods  always  put  strange  thoughts  into 
his  head.  They  made  him  think  of  his  own  life, 
lonely,  windy  and  sere.  But  some  day  the  spring 
would  throb  in  them,  their  branches  would  shine 
with  green,  their  thickets  would  thrill  with  song; 
in  their  waste,  desolate  places  primroses  would 
push  through  the  dead  leaves  of  last  year.  .  .  . 
He  sat  up  again  with  a  jerk — for  the  first  time  he 
realised  that  the  woods  would  not  be  always  brown. 

The  thought  gave  him  a  faint  shock  of  surprise. 
Ever  since  the  day  he  left  prison  he  had  looked 
out  on  brown  woods,  rocked  by  autumn  and  winter 
winds,  so  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  autumn 
and  winter  would  not  last  for  ever.  He  had  never 
thought  of  spring,  of  March  and  tender  green, 
of  April  and  first  flowers,  of  sweet,  quickening 
rains,  and  winds  full  of  warmth  and  the  scent 
of  young  leaves.  It  was  strange  that  he  should 
have  forgotten  spring. 

Now  in  the  darkest  day  of  the  year,  spring  held 
out  its  promise  to  the  woods — and  to  him.  The 


164  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

yellow  of  a  hidden  sunrise  was  filling  the  clouds 
like  hope  unbounded — and  Nigel's  dream  came 
back  to  him,  his  dream  of  marble  halls  and  of  love 
that  was  "  still  the  same."  He  saw  himself  playing 
to  thronged  audiences,  with  Tony  close  to  him, 
unseen,  intangible,  but  there — with  all  the  sweet 
memories  of  Lingfield  and  Brambletye  revived  and 
re-established,  her  friendship,  candour,  and  tender- 
ness "  still  the  same." 

Then  he  understood.  Gulfs  unbridgeable  might 
lie  between  the  convict  with  his  stained  and  broken 
life  and  the  simple  little  schoolgirl  of  Shovelstrode. 
But  the  well-known  violinist  who  played  for  "  big 
salaries,"  who  "filled  the  Albert  Hall."  ...  A 
terrible  thing  had  happened  to  Nigel — he  had  be- 
gun to  hope.  When  hope  has  been  a  long  time 
away,  the  return  of  it  is  like  the  return  of  sensation 
to  a  frost-bitten  limb.  It  pricks,  it  burns,  it  tor- 
tures. It  tortured  Nigel  till  a  cry  of  anguish 
burst  from  him,  bitterer  than  in  any  of  his  fits 
of  despair.  He  bent  forward,  clapping  his  hand 
to  his  side. 

Hope  showed  him  the  doors  of  his, prison  flung 
wide  at  last.  For  long  years  he  had  never  dreamed 
of  escape.,  he  was  a  captive,  so  fast  in  prison  that 
he  could  not  get  forth — free  only  among  the  dead. 
But  now  the  doors  were  open  and  he  could  go  out. 
His  music  would  raise  him  up  out  of  the  pit,  bring 
him  back  to  an  earth  washed  in  rain  and  spring, 
to  touch  the  trembling  innocence  of  the  lilies,  and 
drink  the  sweetness  of  the  eternal  May. 

"Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!— I  want  to  be  free!  I 
want  to  be  free !  " 


WOODS  AT  DAWN  165 

The  cry  was  not  a  prayer  so  much  as  the  cry  of 
his  great  hunger,  rinding  voice  at  last — "  I  want  to 
be  free !  I  want  to  be  free !  " 

His  mind  dropped  hastily  to  practical  details. 
He  had  seen  von  Gleichroeder's  address  on  his 
card,  and  that  tough  memory  of  his,  which  was 
sometimes  a  curse  to  him,  held  it  fast.  He  would 
write  and  tell  him  he  had  changed  his  mind.  It 
would  be  humiliating,  but  it  must  be  done.  Then 
he  would  go  to  London,  and  work — and  work.  It 
was  not  only  the  topmost  pinnacle  that  could  lift 
him  out  of  his  old  life,  the  name  he  would  make 
for  himself  need  not  be  a  great  name — as  long  as 
it  was  a  fair  name.  That  was  what  he  wanted,  and 
would  struggle  for — a  fair  name.  Hard  work,  an 
honest  livelihood,  self-denial,  constant  communion 
with  the  beautiful  and  inspired,  would  purge  his 
soul  of  its  defilement.  The  hideous  stain  of  his 
crime  would  be  wiped  off.  When  he  had  lived 
for  years  in  poverty  and  honesty,  when  he  had 
brought  by  his  music  a  little  sunshine  into  poor 
lives  like  those  he  had  smitten,  when  the  fields  of 
three  counties  had  ceased  to  reproach  him  for 
his  treachery,  and  the  name  of  Furlonger  had 
some  faint  lustre  from  his  bearing  it — then  he 
would  be  free.  And  when  he  was  free  he  would 
allow  himself — not  to  claim  Tony's  friendship  or 
anything  else  beyond  him,  but  just  to  think  of  her 
— think  of  her  with  hope. 

Oh,  Tony,  little  Tony !  his  little  love ! 

For  weeks  now  he  had  known  that  he  loved 
her.  Though  he  had  never  dared  think  of  her 
as  a  woman,  he  wanted  her.  He  had  wanted 


166  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

women  before,  he  had  had  his  adventures  with 
them — though  not  perhaps  as  many  as  the  average 
man — but  they  had  all  been  stale  and  ordinary, 
the  stock  line,  the  job  lot,  which  eager,  extrava- 
gant youth  pays  high  for  as  a  novelty.  Now  he 
had  something  new.  He  loved  a  little  girl,  scarcely 
more  than  a  child,  parted  from  him  by  a  dozen 
barriers  of  his  own  erecting.  He  loved  her  because 
she  was  good  and  innocent,  and  had  given  him 
perfect  comradeship;  most  of  all  he  loved  her 
because  of  the  barriers  between  them,  because  she 
lived  utterly  apart  from  him,  in  a  foreign  land  of 
liberty  and  hope  and  uprightness,  towards  which 
he  must  strive  hourly  if  he  were  to  gain  even  the 
frontiers. 

He  scowled  a  little.  He  was  not  blind,  and  he 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  go  into  slavery,  per- 
haps for  a  long  time,  before  this  new  freedom  was 
won.  Even  in  an  hour  he  had  been  able  to  see 
that  von  Gleichroeder  was  a  technique-fiend,  and 
would  make  matters  hot  for  his  clumsy  pupil.  He 
also  realized  that  though  the  German  had  borne 
good  humouredly  with  his  insolence,  he  would  not 
be  so  patient  when  he  became  his  master.  Yes — 
he  would  have  a  master — he  would  have  to  practise 
scales  and  exercises — he  would  be  reprimanded, 
lectured,  ordered  about.  Herr  von  Gleichroeder 
would  be  his  master,  and  the  tacit  sympathy  be- 
tween them  would  but  make  their  relations  more 
galling. 

There  would  be  other  sacrifices  too.  He  would 
have  to  say  good-bye  to  Sparrow  Hall,  and  to 
Len  and  Janey.  He  caught  his  breath — God!  how 


WOODS  AT  DAWN  167 

he  loved  Len  and  Janey!  He  had  been  brutal  and 
heartless  to  them  again  and  again,  but  he  loved 
them  with  a  love  that  was  half  pain  in  its  intensity. 
He  would  have  to  be  away  from  them  perhaps  for 
years.  Yet  when  he  came  back  he  would  bring 
them  a  gift — the  same  gift  that  he  would  bring 
Tony — a  fair  name.  That  was  what  he  owed  every 
one — the  world,  his  brother  and  sister,  his  little  love. 

The  very  fact  that  he  was  taking  his  "  stinking 
past "  with  him  into  the  future  would  to  some 
extent  remove  its  offensiveness.  It  was  all  very 
well  to  talk  of  "  starting  afresh  under  another 
name."  What  he  wanted  was  to  raise  his  old  name 
— the  name  of  Furlonger — out  of  the  dust.  The 
convict  should  not  just  quietly  disappear,  he  should 
be  transfigured  into  the  artist,  publicly,  before  the 
whole  world.  As  his  degradation  had  been  public, 
the  comment  of  cheap  newspapers,  so  should  his 
exaltation. 

A  thundering  knock  at  the  door  broke  into  his 
dreams. 

"  Nigel,  in  the  devil's  name,  get  up ! — break- 
fast's waiting." 

The  next  moment  Len  was  in  the  room,  tearing 
the  bed-clothes  off  him. 

"  You  are  a  fat  lot  of  use  on  the  farm ! — I've 
got  through  half  the  morning's  work  without  you." 

"  Then  you  won't  miss  me  so  much  when  I'm 
gone." 

"  Gone  where  ?  " 

"  To  London." 

Nigel  began  to  dress  himself — Len  stared  at  him 
gaping. 


168  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  To  London !  why,  you  aren't  going  there,  are 
you?" 

"  I  am." 

"  To  that  man  von  what's-his-name  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

Len  stared  harder  than  ever.  Then  he  suddenly 
lost  his  temper. 

"  '  Of  course  ' ! — there's  no  '  of  course '  about  it 
— except  *  of  course  not.'  Why,  you  told  him  you 
wouldn't  hear  of  such  a  thing." 

"  But  I  may  change  my  mind,  mayn't  I  ?  " 

"  No — you  mayn't.  Look  here,  Nigel,  you've 
led  sister  and  self  an  infernal  dance  for  the  last 
three  months.  Can't  you  chuck  it  ?  " 

"I'm  going  to  chuck  it — by  leaving  this  place." 

Leonard  saw  his  brother  was  in  earnest.  He 
came  quickly  towards  him,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  What  have  we  done  to  upset  you,  old  man  ?  " 

"  Nothing — you've  always  been  sports." 

"  Then  why  are  you  going?  " 

Nigel  hestitated.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
tell  even  this  brother  of  his  sacred,  half-formed 
plans. 

"  You  won't  miss  me,"  he  faltered. 

"  Won't  miss  you !  Won't  miss  you ! — what  the 
devil  d'you  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  no  use  on  the  farm — I  laze  and  I  slack. 
You'll  get  on  much  better  without  me." 

"  Gammon !  You're  tumbling  into  it  nicely,  and 
if  you  go,  I'll  have  to  hire  a  man — and  there'll 
be  the  expense  of  your  keep  in  London.  No,  no, 
old  chap — that  won't  wash." 


WOODS  AT  DAWN  169 

"  Wait  till  you've  tried  it." 

"  Haven't  I  been  trying  it  for  three  years  ?  Be- 
sides, my  boy,  this  is  only  beating  round  the  bush. 
The  main  fact  is  that  Janey  and  I  would  miss  you 
simply  damnably." 

"  Not  really,"  said  Nigel,  his  mouth  drooping 
with  a  great  tenderness,  "  you'd  soon  feel  the  relief 
of  being  rid  of  me  and  my  tantrums." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  That's  Janey,"  cried  Len.  "  Come  in,  old  girl 
— I  want  you." 

Janey  came  in.  Nigel  was  nearly  dressed,  and 
had  begun  to  shave. 

"  Breakfast's "  began  Janey. 

"  Yes — I  know  all  about  breakfast.  That  isn't 
what's  the  matter.  Len  wants  you  to  join 
him  in  trying  to  persuade  me  not  to  go  to 
London." 

"  But  you're  not  going  to  London!  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  writing  this  morning  to  von  Gleichroeder 
to  say  I've  changed  my  mind." 

"  No !  .  .  .  Nigel !  "  cried  Janey. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  as  if  paralyzed,  then 
suddenly  she  darted  towards  him,  and  flung  her 
arms  round  him,  looking  up  beseechingly  into  his 
face. 

"  Nigel !  no ! — you  mustn't  leave  us — I  can't  bear 
it.  Oh,  say  you  won't !  " 

"  Damn  you,  Janey ! — can't  you  see  I've  got  a 
razor  in  my  hand  ?  " 

She  was  taking  it  even  worse  than  he  had 
expected.  She  seemed  actually  terrified. 


170  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  I  can't  live  here  without  you,"  she  cried 
brokenly,  "  indeed  I  can't." 

He  gently  disengaged  himself. 

"  Most  people's  difficulty,"  he  said,  deliberately 
lathering  his  chin,  "  has  not  been  how  to  live  with- 
out me,  but  how  to  live  with  me." 

"  But  I  can't  live  without  you." 

"  You've  got  Len." 

"  But  he's  only— only  half." 

"The  better  half.  I'm  a  rotten  lot,  Janey. 
You'll  be  far  happier  when  I'm  gone.  I'm  a  sulky 
brute — don't  contradict  me;  I  know  it.  I'm  a 
sulky,  bad-tempered  brute.  Again  and  again  I've 
spoiled  your  happiness  and  the  lad's — I've  done 
nothing  but  snap  and  snarl  at  you,  and  I've  gone 
whining  about  the  place  when  you  wanted  to  be 
cheerful.  You've  both  been  utter  sports  to  put  up 
with  me  so  long — you'll  notice  the  difference  when 
I'm  away,  if  you  can't  realise  it  now." 

Janey  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  drowned  in  tears. 

"  Aren't  you  happy  with  us?  "  asked  Leonard. 

"  Hardly — or  I  shouldn't  be  going." 

He  spoke  with  all  the  exaggerated  brutality  of 
the  man  who  sees  himself  obliged  to  hurt  those  he 
loves. 

"  It's  not  your  fault,"  he  continued  in  a  gentler 
voice,  "  it's  mine.  I'm  such  a  waster.  I'm  a 
miserable,  restless  rotter,  bound  to  make  myself  and 
every  one  else  unhappy.  Now  if  I  go  to  London, 
I  shall  work — I  shall  have  something  to  live  for." 

"  Fame,  you  mean,"  sobbed  Janey. 

"  Well,  something  of  that  kind." 

He  had  finished  shaving,  and  came  and  sat  down 


WOODS  AT  DAWN  171 

by  her  on  the  bed,  forcing  her  drowned  eyes  to  look 
into  his. 

"Janey,  don't  you  want  me  to  be  famous? 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  the  sister  of  a  well-known 
violinist  instead  ol  Convict  Seventy-six?  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  see  me  fill  the  Albert  Hall?  " 

"  Fill  hell !  "  shouted  Leonard.  "  D'you  really 
believe  all  the  rot  that  old  bounder  spoke  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  isn't  likely  he'd  teach  me  for  nothing 
if  he  didn't  expect  to  make  something  out  of  me." 

"Yes— that'll  be  just  what  he'll  do — and  he'll 
make  a  fat  lot  more  than  you  will." 

"  Oh,  don't  go !  "  sobbed  Janey. 

Nigel  looked  wretchedly  from  one  to  the  other.     . 

"  Janey,"  he  cried,  drawing  her  close  to  him, 
and  quivering  in  the  agony  of  his  appeal,  "  Janey, 
can't  you  understand? — I  want  to  start  a  new  life, 
I  want  to  throw  off  all  my  beastly  past.  I  want  to 
make  my  name — your  name — clean  and  honour- 
able. I  dragged  it  into  the  mud,  and  I  must  pull 
it  out  again.  Oh,  I've  suffered  so,  Janey.  I  can't 
get  out  of  prison,  I  feel  more  helplessly  shut  up 
than  ever  I  did  at  Parkhurst.  But  now  I — can  be 
—free." 

The  last  words  burst  from  him  in  a  choking  cry. 
He  flung  himself  back  from  her,  and  looked  into 
her  eyes.  Then  he  was  surprised,  for  he  saw  in 
them,  swimming  in  tears,  a  glimmer  of  under- 
standing. 

"Janey,"  he  continued,  putting  his  lips  close  to 
her  face,  and  mumbling  his  appeal  almost  incohe- 
rently, "  I  can't  expect  you  to  grasp  all  that  this 
means  to  me.  You're  good,  you're  pure — you 


172  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  horrible  stain  on 
your  heart,  which  all  your  tears  don't  seem  able 
to  wash  away.  But  can't  you  put  yourself  for  a 
moment  in  my  place  and  realise  what  it  is  to  hunger 
for  a  decent  life,  to  dream  of  whiteness  and  purity 
and  innocence,  and  burn  to  make  them  yours? — 
to  be  willing  to  give  the  whole  world — just  to  be 
— clean  ? 

"  I  think  I  can,"  said  Janey. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS 

HALF-AN-HOUR  later  the  three  Furlongers  sat 
down  to  a  cold  breakfast.  They  were  almost 
silent,  for  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  The 
matter  was  settled.  Nigel  had  found  an  unex- 
pected ally  in  Janet,  and  had  carried  his  point. 
Directly  after  breakfast  he  wrote  to  von  Gleich- 
roeder.  It  was  a  difficult  letter,  for  it  meant 
nothing  less  than  eating  humble  pie,  but  for  that 
very  reason  he  did  not  take  long  over  it.  An 
envelope  addressed  in  his  large,  scrawling  hand 
was  soon  ready  to  be  posted. 

It  was  a  clear,  cold  day,  this  feast  of  Stephen. 
A  frosty  sunshine  crisped  the  grass,  scattering  the 
damps  of  yesterday's  fog.  The  lane  smelled  of 
frost  as  Nigel  walked  up  it  to  the  post-office. 
But  he  did  not  see  it  as  it  was — in  the  duress  and 
beggarliness  of  winter;  he  saw  it  as  it  would  be, 
bursting  with  spring,  full  of  scent  and  softness 
and  song.  He  pictured  those  naked  bushes  when 
spring  had  clothed  them,  those  grey  banks  when 
spring  had  fired  them — the  hedges  were  full  of 
future  song,  the  hollows  of  primroses  to  be. 

He  posted  his  letter,  then  stood  for  a  moment, 
looking  southward.  The  sunshine  was  so  clear 
that  the  rims  of  distant  windows  gleamed  with 
white  across  the  fields.  He  could  see  the  windows 
of  Shovelstrode.  .  .  . 

173 


174  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Dared  he? 

After  all,  he  would  have  to.  He  could  not  leave 
Sparrow  Hall  without  seeing  Tony.  He  would  not 
tell  her  of  her  place  in  his  plans,  but  he  owed  it 
to  her  and  to  himself  that  she  should  think  of  him 
as  a  man  living  uprightly,  striving  after  honour. 
Now  she  was  thinking  of  him  as  a  scoundrel  and 
an  outcast — he  came  into  her  thoughts  with  a 
shudder.  It  must  not  be. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  afraid.  It  gave  him  a 
strange,  cold  qualm  to  think  he  was  afraid  of 
Tony,  once  his  comrade,  now  his  love — but  he  was. 
If  he  meant  to  see  her,  he  must  go  at  once,  before 
his  resolve  lost  strength  with  spontaneity.  He 
turned  towards  the  south,  where  the  sunshine  lay. 

As  he  came  near  Shovelstrode  his  quakings 
grew.  After  all,  by  the  time  he  had  made  himself 
worthy  to  think  of  her,  she  would  have  given  her- 
self to  another.  He  could  not  even  hint  that  he 
wanted  her  to  wait.  He  must  trust  to  her  aloof- 
ness to  keep  her  free,  and  the  memory  of  their 
friendship  to  keep  alive  in  her  heart  a  little  spark 
that  he  could  some  day  fan  into  flame.  But  it 
was  all  rather  hopeless,  a  leap  in  the  dark. 

Perhaps,  even,  she  would  refuse  to  see  him.  He 
remembered  the  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  had 
turned  from  him  by  Goatsluck  Farm.  All  the 
steel-cold  virtue,  all  the  ignorant  horror,  all  the 
cruelty  of  youth  had  been  in  that  look.  Perhaps 
she  had  turned  from  him  for  ever.  Perhaps 
nothing  that  he  could  ever  achieve  or  be  would 
wipe  out  from  her  memory  his  foul  betrayal  of 
others  and  herself. 


THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS       175 

But  he  went  too  far  in  his  fears  for  utter  despair. 
Reaction  set  in — hope  began  once  more  to  lacerate 
him,  and  whipped  him  forward  to  make  his  last 
desperate  appeal  to  the  fates  that  had  always 
hitherto  been  deaf  and  blind. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  when  he  came  to  the 
house.  The  servants  might  know  who  he  was  and 
not  allow  him  in,  or  he  might  be  seen  by  some  of 
the  family.  It  struck  him  that  he  had  better  go 
and  look  for  her  in  the  park  before  risking  himself 
on  the  doorstep.  She  had  once  told  him  that  she 
often  wandered  among  the  pines. 

He  slipped  round  behind  the  lodge,  and  was 
skirting  the  lawn  at  the  back  of  the  house,  when 
he  saw  one  of  the  French  windows  open  and  a  girl 
come  out  with  her  dog.  His  heart  gave  a  suffocat- 
ing 'leap,  and  something  seemed  to  rise  in  his 
throat  and  stay  there,  making  him  gulp  idiotically. 
He  had  never  before  felt  any  emotion  at  the  sight 
of  her — just  pleasure,  a  calm,  slow-moving  com- 
fort. But  to-day  his  head  swam,  and  he  could 
hardly  see  her  as  she  came  running  and  skipping 
across  the  lawn  in  a  manner  wholly  at  variance 
with  her  long  skirts  and  coiled-up  hair. 

She  turned  aside  before  she  reached  the  bushes 
that  hid  him,  and  he  just  managed  to  call  after 
her — 

"Tony!— Tony!" 

The  dog  barked,  and  the  next  minute  had  scented 
him,  and  came  cantering  over  the  grass.  Tony 
stood  still  and  listened.  She  looked  uncertain,  and 
he  called  again — 

"Tony!" 


176  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

She  turned  quickly,  and  slipped  behind  the 
bushes,  running  to  him  along  the  path.  When  she 
was  a  few  yards  off  she  stopped  dead. 

"  Mr.  Furlonger  .  .  ." 

She  stood  outlined  against  a  patch  of  wintry  sky. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  seen  her  since 
her  return.  He  thought  that  she  was  paler  than  in 
the  valiant  days  of  their  friendship,  and  certainly 
the  way  she  did  her  hair  gave  her  a  grown-up 
look.  .  The  stifling  sensation  in  his  throat  became 
worse,  and  he  could  not  speak. 

"What  is  it  ...  Mr.  Furlonger?" 

"  I — I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no !  I  can't ! "  Her  voice  was  quite 
childish. 

"  I  must — please  do." 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Then  come  into  the  shrubbery.  We  can  be 
seen  here  from  the  house." 

"  I  know.  I'm  not  here  to  get  you  into  trouble. 
I — I  only  came  to  say  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  repeated  vaguely,  not  quite 
understanding  him,  for  her  heart  had  said  good- 
bye to  him  long  ago. 

"  Yes — I'm  going  to  London." 

They  were  walking  away  from  the  house  to 
where  the  pine-needles  were  thick  under  their  feet 
— on  a  little,  moist  path  smelling  of  winter.  The 
sunshine  came  slanting  down  on  Tony  as  she 
stopped,  showing  up  her  slim,  strong  figure  in  a 
cold  purity  of  light.  It  rested  on  her  hair,  and  he 
saw  golden  threads  in  it — in  her  eyes,  and  he  saw 
golden  sparks  in  them.  For  the  first  time  he 


THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS       177 

realised  how  beautiful  she  was  in  all  the  assurance 
and  unconsciousness  of  her  youth.  He  longed  to 
tell  her  so.  Instead  he  muttered — 

"  How  grown-up  you  look." 

"  Do  I  ? — it's  my  hair,  I  suppose." 

"  Did  they  make  you  put  it  up?  " 

"  Aunt  Maggie  said  I  was  old  enough — and  I 
think  so  too." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  coming  here  to  see 
you."  He  was  desperately  embarrassed,  and  her 
manner  did  not  reassure  him.  "  I'm  going  away, 
you  see,  to  study  music,  and  I — I  thought  I  should 
like  to  say  good-bye." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  rather  awkwardly,  her 
excessive  youth  showing  nowhere  more  clearly  than 
in  her  inability  to  put  him  at  his  ease.  "  Oh,  no, 
I'm  glad  you  came — to  say  good-bye." 

"  I'm  going  to  work  very  hard.  There's  a 
fellow — Eitel  von  Gleichroeder,  I  don't  know  if 
you've  heard  of  him — who's  taken  a  fancy  to  me, 
and  says  he'll  coach  me  if  I'll  take  up  the  violin 
professionally." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  played." 

"  Yes — but  I'd  no  idea  I  was  any  good  till  I  met 
this  chap.  He  says  I  ought  to  make  quite  a  decent 
thing  out  of  it.  I — I  think  it's  worth  trying." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  his  voice  shaking  with 
emotion,  "  I  want  to  start  a  new  life — to  be  respect- 
able, I  suppose  you'd  call  it.  If  I  win  fame  as  a 
violinist — and  von  Gleichroeder  thinks  I  may — I — 
I  shall  have  lived  down  everything." 

"  Yes  ...  of  course." 
12 


178  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

It  was  embarrassment,  not  lack  of  interest,  that 
made  her  replies  so  trite.  Memories  of  their 
friendship — now  dim  and  far-off,  separated  from 
her  by  many  wonderful  happenings — were  creep- 
ing up  to  her  and  filling  her  with  a  vague 
uneasiness. 

As  for  Nigel,  he  realised  now  what  had  taken 
place.  He  understood  why  his  tongue  had  sud- 
denly become  tied  in  her  presence,  and  his  eager- 
ness collapsed  into  shuffling  uncouthness.  He 
had  come  to  Shovelstrode  to  speak  to  a  little  girl 
— and  he  had  found  a  woman.  Tony  the  school- 
girl, the  hoyden,  the  gay  comrade,  was  now 
nothing  but  a  little  ghost  haunting  the  slopes  of 
Ashdown  and  the  secret  lanes  of  Kent.  In  her 
place  stood  a  woman — come  suddenly,  as  the 
woman  always  comes — and  the  woman,  he  knew, 
was  trying  to  call  back  the  girl,  and  see  things 
from  her  eyes  once  more — and  could  not. 

"Tony — Miss  Strife — I  wanted  to  tell  you  this, 
just  to  show  you  I'm  not  always  going  to  be  a 
convict  on  ticket-of -leave." 

"  I'm  sure  you  won't.  I  hope  you'll  become 
very  famous." 

The  words  passed  her  lips  in  jerks.  Her 
memories  of  him  carried  something  very  like 
repulsion.  The  more  she  struggled  to  revisualise 
the  comradeship  of  two  months  ago,  the  greater 
was  her  distaste  and  humiliation.  The  kindest 
attitude  possible  for  her  now  was  one  of  embar- 
rassed shyness.  At  first  she  had  tried  to  heal 
herself  with  her  memories,  but  as  soon  as  she  had 


THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS       179 

worked  back  to  them  she  found  their  sweet  secrets 
all  sicklied  with  bitterness  and  shame. 

He  looked  steadfastly  at  her,  and  he  saw  what 
had  happened. 

"  Tony — you  don't  want  to  know  me  any  longer 
— you  want  to  forget  we  ever  were  friends.  There's 
no  good  denying  it,  for  I  can  see  it." 

She  stood  motionless,  her  lips  white,  her  hands 
clenched  in  front  of  her. 

"  It's  true — I  can  see  it,"  he  repeated. 

She  did  not  speak.  Her  memories  were  calling 
very  loud,  and  there  were  tears  in  the  voices, 
softening  the  shame. 

"  You  can't  bear  the  thought  of  having*  once 
been  my  friend." 

Tears  were  rising  in  her  throat,  and  with  her 
tears  the  little  school-girl  who  had  run  away  came 
back,  and  showed  her  face  again  before  she  went 
for  ever. 

"Oh,  it's  hurt  me!"  she  cried.  "You  don't 
know  how  it's  hurt  me !  " 

"  To  know  I  was  a  bad  'un  ?  "  He  grasped  the 
shaking  hand  she  thrust  out  before  her. 

"  Yes — I  can't  bear  to  think  .  .  ." 

"  But  I've  changed — I  swear  I  have.  I'm  going 
to  live  a  decent  life;  and  you're  going  to  help  me — 
by  just  saying  you  believe  I  can." 

She  shuddered,  and  pulled  her  hand  away. 

"  I  tell  you  I've  changed,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly; 
"  won't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

She  was  crying  now. 

"  You  don't  understand  .  .  .  you  don't  under- 


180  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

stand  .    .    .  what  one  feels  about  men  like  you." 

He  winced. 

"You  don't  know  what  I  felt  .  .  .  when  I 
heard  .  .  ." 

"  Tony !  "  he  cried,  "  you  must  forgive  me." 

"  I  do  forgive  you — it's  not  me  you've  hurt — 
but -" 

"  *  But '  you  don't  forgive  me,  and  it  is  you 
I've  hurt — that's  what  your  '  but '  means." 

There  was  another  silence,  broken  only  by  her 
muffled  crying  and  the  throbbing  of  the  wind  in 
the  pine-tops.  Nigel  felt  that  his  old  life  was 
struggling  in  its  cerements  to  spring  up  and 
strangle  the  new  life  at  its  birth. 

"  I  can't  understand,"  sobbed  the  girl,  "  how  you 
or  any  man  could  have  done  such  a  horrible  thing. 
You've  been  merciless  and  cruel  and  grasping 
and  unworthy— and  you  won  my  friendship  by 
false  pretences,  by  lies  and  shams — when  all  the 
time  you  knew  that  if  I'd  had  any  idea  who  you 
really  were  I  wouldn't  have  let  you  come  near 
me.  Oh,  it  probably  seems  only  a  little  thing 
to  you,  but  it's  dreadful  for  me  to  think  I've 
given  my  friendship  to  a  man  who's  been  a — a 
cad. 

His  anger  kindled,  for  her  inexperience  and 
ignorance  no  longer  attracted  him — they  were  now 
only  fragments  that  remained  of  something  he  had 
worshipped. 

"  Then  are  you  going  to  inquire  into  the  history 
of  every  man  you  meet,  in  case  any  one  else  should 
'  win  your  friendship  under  false  pretences '  ? 


THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS       181 

Most  men  have  had  a  little  shake  up  in  their 
pasts." 

"  You  don't  call  yours  a  little  shake  up,  do 
you?" 

The  retort  was  obvious,  and  he  flushed — but 
at  the  same  time  it  gave  him  an  unwonted 
courage. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  you  mustn't  think  it's 
been  just  as  easy  for  me  to  keep  straight  as  for 
you.  Do  you  realise  what  being  a  man  means? 
— it  means  to  be  tempted." 

"  Women  are  tempted." 

He  laughed. 

"  But  not  like  men." 

He  saw  the  incredulousness  of  her  eyes,  and  once 
more  his  rage  flared  up. 

"  You  don't  understand !  "  he  cried,  "  you  don't 
understand ! " 

Then  it  struck  him  that  she  would  never  under- 
stand, that  she  would  go  through  life  with  her 
narrow  ideas,  acquired  in  a  girls'  school  and 
nurtured  in  her  home.  All  her  divine  womanly 
powers  of  sympathy  and  forgiveness  would  be 
strangled  by  her  ignorance  and  her  hard-and-fast 
rules  based  on  inexperience.  She  was  the  only 
woman  he  knew  of  her  class,  but  he  knew  the 
limitations  of  that  class,  and  Tony  would  soon 
be  bound  by  them  like  the  others.  Janey  was  so 
different — Janey  realised  what  one  felt  like  when 
one  simply  had  to  go  on  the  bust,  when  one  came 
beastly  muckers.  She  scolded,  but  she  under- 
stood. Tony  did  not  scold,  and  she  did  not 
understand. 


182  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  I  want  you  to  understand,"  he  said  painfully. 

"What?" 

"  About  me — about  other  men." 

"  Why  do  you  think  I  don't  understand  ?  " 

"  You  don't ! — you  don't !  You  simply  can't — 
and  if  you  go  on  as  you  are,  you  never  will.  Oh, 
I  wish  you  could!  You're  too  good  to  be  like — 
other  women." 

Something  in  his  nervous,  excited  manner 
frightened  her,  and  strange  to  say  that  faint  thrill 
of  fear  removed  the  shame  which  had  tarnished 
her  attitude  towards  him  that  day.  Once  more 
she  felt  the  subtle  magic  of  his  unusualness — the 
attraction  of  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  tell  me 
about  yourself." 

He  laughed  a  little. 

"  Oh,  my  story  is  just  every  man's.  I've 
mucked  it  a  bit  worse,  that's  all.  But  the  fight's 
pretty  well  as  hard  with  all  of  us.  Directly  we're 
grown  up,  almost  before,  there  are  people  going 
about  whose  paid  business  it  is  to  tempt  us. 
Tempting  us,  just  when  Nature  has  made  it  most 
difficult  for  us  to  resist,  is  the  profession  of 
thousands  of  human  beings.  We  fall — we  often 
fall — for  if  we  didn't  a  powerful  set  would  have 
empty  pockets — so  they  see  that  we  fall.  And 
then  we  can't  pick  ourselves  up,  we  sink  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  mud  .  .  .  and  some  of  us 
touch  bottom." 

He  paused,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Her  face  was 
turned  away. 

"  The  horrible  thing  I  did,"  he  continued  almost 


THE  SERMON  ON  FORGIVENESS       183 

roughly,  "  which,  if  you'd  only  believe  me,  I  loathe 
as  much  as  you  do — I  did  only  as  the  consequence 
of  other  things,  not  quite  so  bad,  before  it.  If  a 
woman  like  you  had  come  along  when  I  first  fell 
— I  was  only  nineteen — she  might  have  pulled  me 
up  again.  But  she  didn't  come.  Other  women 
came,  and  they  knocked  me  flatter.  They  couldn't 
forgive.  Poor  devils!  I  don't  blame  them — 
they'd  a  great  deal  to  forgive.  I  went  down — and 
down — till  it  became  a  sort  of  habit  to  lie  there  in 
the  ditch.  Then  you  came,  and  I — I  wanted  to 
get  up." 

She  still  looked  away  from  him,  but  her  head 
was  bowed. 

"  Oh,  Tony — won't  you  give  me  a  hand  ?  "- 

"How  can  I?" 

"  By  just  believing  I  can  and  will  do  better,  and 
by  saying  that  if  I  live  a  decent  life,  and  pull  my 
name  out  of  the  dirt,  and  make  myself  fit  to  know 
you,  I  may  be  your — friend.  You've  a  right  to 
punish  me,  but  I  ask  you  to  put  aside  that  right 
for — for  pity's  sake." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  want  my  forgiveness  so 
much — why  it  means  such  a  lot  to  you." 

"  It  means  the  world  to  me.  Oh,  Tony — little 
pal  that  was — forgive  me!  Life's  a  hard,  rotten, 
wretched  thing,  and  if  there  was  no  one  to  for- 
give. .  .  ." 

"I'll  try." 

"Oh,  please  try!  If  you  think,  you'll  come  to 
understand  things  presently,  even  if  you  can't  now. 
It's  for  your  own  sake  as  well  as  mine  I  ask  it. 
Think  how  many  a  man  who  lies  in  the  mud 


184  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

wouldn't  be  there  if  only  he  had  some  woman  to 
forgive  him." 

"  I'll  try "  she  repeated  falteringly. 

"  Then  I've  got  what'll  keep  me  going  for  the 
present.  And,  Tony,  you'll  believe  that  I  can  and 
will  behave  decently,  and  make  myself  worthy  to 
be  your — your  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'll  believe  it." 

"  Thank  you." 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

"  Good-bye." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  longed  to  kiss  it.  But 
he  was  still  humble  and  afraid,  and  let  it  fall. 

"  Tony — Tony — you  will  have  to  forgive  me  a 
great  many  things  .  .  .  because  I  am  so  very- 
hungry. " 


BOOK  II 
THE  WORLD  AGAINST  THE  THREE 


CHAPTER  I 

GLIMPSES   AND   DREAMS 

I 

THERE  was  a  foam  of  anemones  in  the  hollows 
of  Furnace  Wood.  The  wind  crept  over  the  heads 
of  the  hazel  bushes,  bowing  them  gently,  and 
shaking  out  of  them  the  scent  of  their  budding. 
From  the  young  grass  and  tender,  vivid  mosses 
crept  up  more  scents,  faint,  moist  and  earthy.  The 
sky  was  grey  behind  the  stooping  hazels,  but 
glimmered  with  the  yellow  promise  of  noon. 

Janet  Furlonger  and  Quentin  Lowe  had  met  to 
say  good-bye  in  Furnace  Wood.  The  scent  of 
spring  was  in  Janey's  clothes,  and  when  her  lover 
drew  her  head  down  to  his  shoulder  he  tasted 
spring  in  her  hair.  But  there  was  not  spring  on 
her  lips  when  he  sought  them — only  the  salt  wash 
of  sorrow. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  little  Janey  ?  This  is  the 
beginning  of  hope." 

Another  tear  slid  down  towards  her  mouth, 
but  she  wiped  it  away — he  must  not  drink  her 
tears. 

"  Quentin  ...  I  hope  it  won't  be  for  long." 

"  No,  no — not  long,  little  Janey,  sweet,  not  long. 
It  can't  be.  In  six  months,  perhaps  in  less,  you'll 
have  a  letter  asking  you  to  come  up  to  town  and 
marry  a  poor  but  independent  journalist." 

"  You  really  think  that  this  time  you're  going  to 
succeed?  " 

187 


188  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"Of  course.  Do  you  imagine  I'd  touch  Rider's 
idiotic  rag  with  the  tongs  if  I  didn't  look  on  it 
as  a  stepping-stone  to  better  things.  There's  a 
mixed  metaphor,  Janey.  Didn't  you  notice  it?" 

"  No,  dear." 

"  You're  not  critical  enough,  little  one.  You're 
worthy  of  good  prose — when  I'm  too  weak  and 
heavy-hearted  for  poetry." 

The  wind  sighed  towards  them,  bringing  the 
scent  of  hidden  water. 

"  I  must  leave  you,  my  own — or  I  shall  be  late. 
Now  for  months  of  hard  work  and  hungry  dreams 
of  Janey,  who  will  be  given  at  last  to  my  great 
hunger.  Little  heart,  do  you  know  what  it  is  to 
hunger?" 

She  trembled.    "Yes." 

"  Then  pity  me.  Pity  me  from  the  fields  when 
you  vwalk  in  them,  as  you  and  I  have  so  often 
walked,  over  fallen  leaves — pity  me  from  your  fire 
when  you  sit  by  it  and  see  in  the  embers  things 
too  beautiful  to  be — from  your  meals  when  you  eat 
them — you  and  I  have  had  only  one  meal  together, 
Janey — and  from  your  bed  when  you  lie  waking  in 
it.  Janey,  Janey — pity  me." 

"  Pity  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  ." 

He  was  holding  her  in  his  arms,  looking  into 
her  beautiful,  haggard  face.  A  sudden  pang  con- 
tracted her  limbs,  then  released  them  into  an 
abandonment  of  weakness. 

"  Quentin  .  .  .  promise  me  that  you  will  never 
forget  how  much  you  loved  me." 

"Janey!" 

"  Promise  me." 


GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS  189 

"  Janey,  how  dare  you ! — '  loved  you  ' !  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please  promise !  " 

She  was  crying.  He  had  never  seen  her  like 
this.  Hitherto  at  their  meetings  she  had  left  the 
stress  and  earthquake  of  love  to  him,  fronting  it 
with  a  sweet,  half-timid  calm.  Now  she  clung  to 
him,  twisted  and  trembled. 

"  Promise,  Quentin." 

"  Well,  since  you're  such  a  silly  little  thing,  I 
will.  Listen.  '  I  promise  never  to  forget  how 
much  I  loved  you.'  There,  you  darling  fool." 

"  Thank  you  .  .  ."  she  said  weakly. 

He  drew  her  close,  kissed  her,  and  laughed  at 
her. 

"  Janey — you're  the  spring,  with  its  doubts  and 
distresses.  You  were  the  autumn  when  autumn 
was  here,  all  tanned  and  flushed  and  rumpled,  with 
September  in  your  eyes.  Now  you're  the  spring, 
thin,  soft,  aloof  and  wondering — you're  sunshine 
behind  a  cloud — you're  the  promise  of  August  and 
heavy  apple-boughs." 

"  And  you'll  never  forget  how  much  you  loved 
me.  .  .  ." 

II 

The  golden  lights  of  late  afternoon  were  kindled 
in  London,  warring  with  the  smoky  remnants  of 
an  April  day.  They  shone  on  the  wet  pavements 
and  mud-slopped  streets — down  Oxford  Street 
poured  the  full  blaze  of  the  sunset,  flamy,  fogged, 
mysterious,  crinkling  into  dull  purples  behind  the 
Circus  and  the  spire  in  Langham  Place. 


190  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

The  Queen's  Hall  was  emptying — crowds  poured 
out,  taxi-horns  answered  taxi-whistles,  and  the 
surge  of  the  streets  swept  by,  gathering  up  the 
units,  and  whirling  them  into  the  nothingness  of 
many  people.  It  gathered  up  Nigel  Furlonger, 
and  rushed  him,  like  a  bubble  on  a  torrent,  down 
Regent  Street,  with  his  face  to  the  darkness  of 
the  south — lit  from  below  by  the  first  flash  of  the 
electric  advertisements  in  Piccadilly  Circus,  from 
above  by  the  first  pale,  useless  glimmer  of  a 
star. 

He  walked  quickly,  his  chin  lifted,  but  mechanic- 
ally taking  his  part  in  the  general  hustle,  not  too 
much  in  dreamland  to  make  way,  shift,  pause,  or 
plunge,  as  the  ballet  of  the  pavements  might 
require.  His  hands  were  clenched  in  his  pockets. 
He,  perhaps  alone  among  those  hundreds,  saw  the 
timid  star. 

A  dream  was  threading  through  his  heart,  knit- 
ting up  the  tags  of  longing,  regret  and  hope  that 
fluttered  there.  A  definite  scheme  seemed  now  to 
explain  the  sorrow  of  the  world.  The  armies  of 
the  sorrowful  had  received  marching  orders,  had 
marched  to  music,  had  been  given  a  nation,  and 
a  song.  Nigel  had  heard  the  Eroica  Symphony. 

In  his  ears  was  still  the  bourdon  of  drums,  the 
sigh  of  strings,  the  lilt  of  wood-wind,  the  restless 
drone  of  brasses.  He  had  heard  sorrow  claim  its 
charter  of  rights,  vindicate  its  pleadings,  fight, 
triumph  and  crown  itself.  He  had  seen  the  life- 
story  of  the  sorrowful  man,  presented  not  as  a 
tragedy  or  a  humiliation,  a  shame  to  be  veiled,  but 


GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS  191 

as  a  pageant,  a  tremendous  spectacle,  set  to  music, 
lighted,  staged,  applauded. 

At  first  the  sorrowful  man  was  half  afraid,  he 
sought  refuge  and  disguise  in  laughter,  he  pined 
for  distraction  and  a  long  sleep.  But  each  time 
he  touched  his  desire,  the  wailings  of  heavenly 
wood-wind  called  him  onward  to  holier,  darker 
things.  He  had  dropped  the  dear,  dustless  prize, 
and  gone  boldly  on  into  the  fire  and  blackness. 
...  A  thick,  dark  cloud  swagged  on  the  precipices 
of  frozen  mountains,  frowned  over  deserts  of  snow. 
The  sorrowful  man  stumbled  in  the  dark,  and  his 
loud  crying  and  the  flurry  of  his  seeking  rose  in 
a  wail  against  the  thudding  drums  of  fate.  Gold 
crept  into  the  cloud,  curling  out  from  under  it  like 
a  flame,  and  the  sorrowful  man  seemed  to  see  a 
human  face  looking  down  on  him,  and  a  hand 
that  held  seven  stars.  ..."  Who  made  the  Seven 
Stars  and  Orion.  .  .  .  '  It  was  by  the  light  of 
those  stars  in  the  Hero's  hand  that  the  sorrowful 
man  saw,  in  a  sudden  awful  wonder,  that  he  was 
not  alone — he  marched  in  the  ranks  of  a  huge 
army.  All  round  him,  over  the  frozen  plain, 
under  the  cloud  with  its  lightnings,  towards  the 
blackness  of  the  boundless  void,  marched  the  army 
of  the  sorrowful,  unafraid.  They  marched  in  mail, 
helmeted,  plated,  with  drawn  swords.  The  ground 
shook  with  the  thunder  of  their  tread,  the  moun- 
tains quaked,  the  darkness  smoked,  the  heavens 
heeled  over,  toppled  and  scattered  before  the  con- 
quering host  whom  the  Lord  had  stricken — trium- 
phant, fearless,  proud,  crowned  and  pierced.  .  .  . 


192  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Footsteps  overtook  Nigel,  and  he  heard  the 
greeting  of  a  fellow  student. 

"  You're  in  the  clouds,  old  man.  Who  sent  you 
there?  Beethoven?" 

Nigel  stared. 

"  But  the  only  cosmic  genius  is  Offenbach." 

"  You  mean  the  '  Orphee  '  ?  " 

"  Yes — and  '  Hoffmann.'  Life  isn't  a  triumphal 
march,  for  all  Beethoven  would  make  it — it's  comic 
opera,  with  just  a  pinch  of  the  bizarre  and  a  spice 
of  the  macabre.  That's  Offenbach." 

Furlonger  was  still  marching  with  the  stricken 
army. 

"  When  a  man  suffers,"  continued  the  student, 
"  the  gods  laugh,  the  world  laughs,  and  last  of  all 
— if  he's  a  sport — the  man  laughs  too." 

"  Sorrow  is  a  triumph,"  said  Nigel,  dreamily. 

"  Not  at  all,  old  man — sorrow  is  a  commonplace. 
The  question  is,  what  are  we  to  make  of  the 
commonplace — a  pageant  or  a  joke?  I'm  not  sure 
that  Offenbach  hasn't  given  a  better  answer  than 
Beethoven." 

Ill 

In  a  small  room  in  Gower  Street  a  man  lay  on 
his  bed,  his  face  crammed  into  the  pillow,  his 
shoulders  high  against  his  ears,  his  legs  twisted 
in  a  rigid  lock  of  endurance.  Now  and  then  a 
shudder  went  through  him,  but  it  was  the  shudder 
of  something  taut  and  stiff,  over  which  the  merest 
surface  tremble  can  pass. 

In  his  hand  he  crushed  a  letter.  Behind  his 
teeth  words  were  forming,  and  fighting  through  to 


GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS  193 

his  colourless  lips.  "  Janey ! — my  Janey !  Oh,  my 
God!  I  can't  bear  this." 

He  suddenly  twisted  himself  round  on  to  his 
back,  and  faced  the  aching,  yellow  square  of  the 
window,  where  a  May  day  was  mocked  by  rain. 
There  was  a  pipe  close  to  the  window,  and  the 
water  poured  from  it  in  a  quick  tinkling  trickle, 
cheering  in  rhythm,  tragic  in  tone.  Quentin  un- 
folded Janey's  letter. 

He  read  it — but  that  word  is  inadequate,  for  he 
read  it  in  the  same  spirit  as  an  Egyptian  priest 
might  read  the  glyphs  of  his  divinity,  seeing  in 
each  sign  a  volume  of  esoteric  meaning,  so  that 
every  jot  and  tittle  was  worthy  of  long  minutes' 
contemplation. 

It  was  some  time  since  Janey's  letters  had  ceased 
to  be  for  Quentin  what  she  hoped.  Literally  they 
were  rather  bald  and  laboured,  for  Janey  was  no 
pen  woman,  but  she  put  a  wealth  of  thought  and 
passion  into  the  straggling  lines,  and  for  a  long 
while  he  had  seen  this.  But  now  he  saw  much 
more,  she  would  have  trembled  to  think  of  the 
meaning  he  read  into  her  words — he  tested  each 
phrase  for  the  insincerity  he  felt  sure  it  must  con- 
ceal, he  hunted  up  and  down  the  pages  for  that 
monster  unknown  to  Janet,  the  arriere  pensee.  Her 
letters  were  a  torture  to  him — they  tortured  his 
brain  with  shadows  and  seekings,  they  tortured  his 
heart  with  blue  fires  of  misgiving  and  scorchings 
of  jealousy.  She  did  not  write  oftener  than  once 
a  week,  but  the  torment  of  a  single  letter  lasted  till 
its  successor  at  once  varied  and  renewed  it. 

Lying  there  in  the  hideous  dusk  of  what  should 
13 


194  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

have  been  a  summer  afternoon,  Quentin  wondered 
if  the  doom  of  love  and  lovers  had  not  been  spoken 
him — "  thou  canst  not  see  My  Face  and  live." 

It  was  a  vital  fear.  Before  he  had  brought  his 
love  to  its  consummation,  snatched  the  veil  from 
its  mysteries,  and  looked  it  in  the  face,  it  had,  in 
spite  of  hours  of  anguish,  been  his  comfort,  the 
strongest,  tenderest,  purest  thing  in  his  life.  But 
now  he  saw,  without  much  searching,  that  this 
love,  though  deeper  and  fiercer  than  ever,  belonged 
somehow  to  his  lower  self.  To  realise  it  brought 
despair  instead  of  comfort,  wreckage  instead  of 
calm.  He  dared  not,  as  in  former  days,  plunge 
his  sick  heart  into  it  as  into  a  spring  of  healing 
waters — rather  it  was  a  scalding  fountain,  bubbling 
and  seething  out  of  death. 

He  had  hoped  that  perhaps  separation  would 
make  him  calmer.  Of  late  he  had  often  denied 
himself  the  sight  of  Janey  in  that  same  vain  hope. 
But  now,  as  then,  he  found  her  letters  almost  as 
disintegrating  as  her  presence — indeed  more  so, 
since  they  gave  wider  scope  to  his  familiar  demon 
of  doubt.  He  wondered  if  he  would  ever  find  rest. 
Would  marriage  give  it  to  him?  He  started  up 
suddenly  on  the  bed.  An  awful  thought  was 
thrust  like  a  sword  against  his  heart — the  thought 
that  even  in  marriage  he  would  not  find  peace. 

He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  looking  on 
marriage  as  the  end  of  sorrows — and  now,  when 
fate  and  hard  work  seemed  to  have  brought  it  within 
gazing-di stance  of  hope,  he  suddenly  saw  that  it 
would  be  as  full  of  torment  as  his  present  state; 
or  rather,  more  so — just  as  his  present  state  was 


GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS  195 

an  intensification  of  the  pain  of  earlier  days.  He 
realised — hardly  definitely,  but  with  horrible  acute- 
ness — that  he  had  allowed  love  to  frustrate  love, 
and  that  by  his  demand  to  look  into  that  great  dread 
Face,  he  had  brought  on  himself  scorching  and 
blindness  and  doom. 

"  Thou  canst  not  see  my  Face  and  live." 

He  sprang  off  the  bed.  His  pulses  were 
hammering,  his  blood  was  thick,  a  kind  of  film 
obscured  his  eyes,  so  that  he  groped  his  way  to 
the  dressing-table.  A  clock  struck  four,  and  he 
suddenly  remembered  an  engagement  he  had  that 
afternoon.  He  would  go — it  would  distract  him. 
He  might  forget  Janey — if  only  for  an  hour,  he 
would  be  free  of  the  torment  that  each  thought  of 
her  carried  like  poison  in  a  golden  bowl.  It  was 
strange,  it  was  terrible,  that  he  should  ever  have 
come  to  want  to  forget  Janey — and  it  was  not 
because  he  did  not  love  her;  he  loved  her  a 
hundred  times  more  passionately  than  ever.  But 
the  love  which  had  once  been  his  strength  and 
salve  had  now  become  a  rotten  sickness  of  the  soul. 

He  dressed  himself,  removed  as  far  as  possible 
the  stains  of  sorrow  and  exhaustion  from  his  face, 
and  plunged  out  to  take  his  place  in  the  restless, 
ill-managed  pageant  of  the  pavements,  where 
threads  are  tangled,  characters  lost,  and  cues  un- 
heard. He  was  going  to  a  semi-literary  gathering 
at  a  friend's  flat  in  Coleherne  Gardens.  He  did 
not  look  forward  to  it  particularly,  but  it  might 
help  him  in  his  twofold  struggle — to  win  Janey  in 
the  future  and  forget  her  for  the  present. 

The  room  was  crowded.     Hallidie  was  presiding 


196  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

over  a  mixed  assembly  of  more-or-less  celebrities 
with  that  debonair  self-confidence  which  had 
helped  make  him  a  famous  novelist  in  spite  of 
his  novels.  There  were  one  or  two  great  ones 
present,  just  to  raise  the  level — he  did  not  intro- 
duce them  to  Lowe.  He  knew  exactly  whom  they 
would  like  to  meet,  and  Lowe,  he  felt,  would  let 
the  conversation  down,  just  when  it  was  becoming 
yeasty  with  literary  wit.  There  were  other  people 
in  the  room  who  showed  a  tendency  to  do  this,  and 
Hallidie  had  carefully  introduced  them  to  one 
another,  so  that  they  could  all  fail  mutually  in  a 
well-upholstered  corner. 

"  Ah — Lowe.  Glad  to  see  you.  Come,  let  me 
introduce  you  to  Miss  Strife " — and  sweeping 
Quentin  past  the  renowned  author  of  Life  and  How 
to  Bear  It,  and  Dompter,  the  little,  insignificant, 
world-famous  sea-poet,  he  presented  him  to  a  very 
young  girl,  sitting  alone  on  a  divan. 

Quentin's  first  feeling  was  one  of  outrage. 
What  right  had  Hallidie  to  drag  him  away  from 
the  pulse  of  things,  so  vital  to  his  struggling 
ambition,  and  condemn  him  to  atrophy  with  a 
flapper.  He  stared  down  at  her  disapprovingly 
— then  something  in  her  wistful  look  disarmed 
him. 

"  I  believe  our  fathers  are  neighbours  in  the 
country,"  he  said  stiffly. 

He  did  not  notice  her  reply.  It  was  not  that 
which  made  him  stop  his  furious  glances  at 
Hallidie  and  sit  down  beside  her.  She  was 
evidently  very  young.  There  was  a  lack  of  sophis- 


GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS  197 

tication  about  her  hair-dressing  which  proclaimed 
an  early  attempt,  her  frock  was  simple  and  girlish, 
her  face  alert  and  innocent. 

Quentin  found  himself  gulping  in  his  throat, 
almost  as  if  tears  had  found  their  way  there  at 
last;  for  he  suddenly  realised  how  new  and  beauti- 
ful it  was  to  sit  beside  a  woman  and  not  be 
tormented.  As  he  looked  at  her  delicate  profile, 
the  pure  curves  of  her  chin  and  collarless  neck, 
his  heart  became  suddenly  still.  There  was  a 
great  calm.  Peace  had  come  down  on  him  like 
water.  Simplicity  rested  on  his  parched  thoughts 
like  rain-clouds  on  a  desert.  He  seemed  suddenly 
to  come  back  to  life,  to  the  world,  and  to  see  them 
in  the  calm,  usual  light  of  every  day.  The  racket, 
the  glare,  the  sense  of  being  in  an  abnormal  rela- 
tion to  his  surroundings — all  were  gone.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  complicated,  sophisticated,  catas- 
trophic life,  Quentin  Lowe  was  at  peace. 

IV 

It  was  late  in  June.  A  haze  wimpled  the  pine- 
trees  of  Shovelstrode,  and  the  heather  between 
their  trunks  was  in  full  flower.  The  old  house 
shimmered  in  the  haze  and  sunshine,  and  stared 
away  to  yellow  fields  of  buttercups  and  distances 
of  brown  and  blue. 

Tony  and  Awdrey  Strife  were  lying  in  the 
shadow  of  a  chestnut  on  the  lawn.  Two  young 
gracious  figures  in  muslins,  they  lay  with  their 
chins  on  their  hands,  and  looked  away  towards  the 
golden  weald.  They  did  not  speak  much,  for  the 


198  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

post  had  just  come,  and  they  were  reading  their 
letters.  Awdrey  giggled  to  herself  a  good  deal 
over  hers,  but  Tony  was  serious — the  corners  of 
her  mouth  even  drooped  a  little,  but  whether  from 
sorrow  or  tenderness  or  both  it  would  be  hard  to 
say.  Suddenly  she  made  an  exclamation. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Awdrey. 

"  It's  a  letter  from  Furlonger." 

"TTkrFurlonger!" 

"  Yes — he's  written  me  quite  a  long  letter." 

"  What  cheek.  I  thought  you'd  seen  the  last 
of  him." 

"  He  came  to  say  good-bye  before  he  went  to 
London." 

"  Oh " 

Awdrey  rolled  over  on  her  side,  and  stared  hard 
at  her  sister. 

"  Did  he  know  you  were  in  town  last  month  ?  " 

"  No — I've  never  written  to  him,  and  this  is  the 
first  time  he's  written  to  me." 

"  Then  he  hasn't  shown  unseemly  eagerness — 
it's  nearly  six  months  since  he  left.  What  does  he 
say? — anything  exciting?  " 

"  Exciting  for  him.  Von  Gleichroeder  is  giving 
a  pupils'  concert  at  the  Bechstein,  and  Mr.  Fur- 
longer  is  going  to  play." 

"A  solo?" 

"  Yes — something  by  Scriabin.  He's  only  had 
six  months'  teaching,  but  von  Gleichroeder's  so 
pleased  with  him  that  he's  going  to  let  him  play 
at  this  concert  of  his.  Then  he'll  finish  his  course, 
and  then  he'll  start  professionally." 


GLIMPSES  AND  DREAMS  199 

"  Good  Lord ! — it  sounds  thrilling  for  an  ex- 
convict.  Let's  see  his  letter." 

"  Here  it  is.  No,"  changing  suddenly,  "  I  think 
I'd  rather  read  it  to  you." 

"  Right-O !    Excuse  a  smile." 

"  Don't  be  an  idiot,  Awdrey.  Now  listen ;  he 
says :  '  Von  Gleichroeder's  concert  is  fixed  for  the 
twenty-seventh  ' — why,  that's  next  Friday — '  and 
it's  been  settled  that  I'm  to  play  Scriabin's  second 
Prelude.  It  sounds  like  cats  fighting,  but  it's 
exciting  stuff.  Von  Gleichroeder  is  tremendously 
keen  on  the  ultra-moderns — nothing  makes  him 
madder  than  to  hear  Verdi  or  Gounod  or  Rossini. 
So  I  play  d'Indy  and  Stravinsky  and  Strauss  and 
Sibelius;  except  when  I'm  alone  in  my  digs — and 
then  I  have  the  old  tunes  out,  for  I  like  them 
best.' " 

She  did  not  read  the  next  paragraph  aloud. 

"  I've  been  having  a  hard  fight  for  it,  Tony — 
but  I'm  pulling  through.  Music  has  helped  me, 
and  the  memory  of  our  friendship,  and  the  thought 
that  you're  trying  to  understand  me  and  forgive 
me." 

"  Well,  I  wish  him  luck,"  said  Awdrey ;  "  what 
a  good  thing  von  Gleichroeder  found  him  out !  " 

"  Yes,  he'll  have  his  chance  now — his  chance  of 
a  decent  life." 

"  Nonsense,  Tony !  That's  not  what  he's  after 
— fame  and  dibs,  my  dear  girl,  fame  and  dibs." 

"  He  told  me  he  was  accepting  von  Gleichroeder's 
offer  because  he  wanted  to  be — good." 

"  Well,  London's  a  queer  place  to  go  for  that." 


200  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  He's  gone  there  to  work.  He  had  no  chance 
here." 

"  More  chance  than  he'll  have  there — you  bet  he's 
painted  the  place  pretty  red  by  this  time." 

Her  sister  was  about  to  retort  sharply,  when  a 
man  suddenly  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
towards  them. 

"  Awdrey !  "  cried  Tony,  springing  up.  "  Here's 
Quentin!" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME 

THE  do6r  was  wide  open  at  Sparrow  Hall,  and 
a  square  of  sunshine  lay  on  the  kitchen  floor.  In 
the  little  flower-stuffed  garden  bees  were  hum- 
ming lazily,  and  a  thrush  was  singing  in  the  last 
of  the  laburnum.  Tangles  of  roses  trailed  over 
the  farm-house  walls,  they  hung  round  the  window- 
frames,  darkening  the  rooms,  and  over  the  door, 
sending  faint  perfumes  to  Janey  as  she  sat  in  the 
kitchen. 

She  looked  pale  and  washed-out  with  the  heat. 
The  outlines  of  her  splendid  figure  were  drooping, 
and  there  was  an  ominous  hollowing  of  the  curves 
of  her  face  and  arms.  She  sat  at  the  table,  her 
cheek  resting  on  her  palm,  reading  from  a  pile  of 
letters.  They  were  long  letters,  closely  written  in 
a  sharp,  scrawling  hand,  on  thin  paper  that 
crackled  gently  as  she  fingered  it.  Every  now  and 
then  she  looked  up  anxiously,  and  seemed  to  listen. 
Then  her  head  would  bow  again,  and  the  paper 
would  crackle  softly  as  before. 

At  last  the  garden  gate  clicked,  and  she  saw  the 
postman's  cap  coming  up  the  path  between  the 
rows  of  sweet  peas.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  trem- 
bling and  fighting  for  her  self-command.  She 
reached  the  door  just  as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  knock. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  miss,"  and  old  Winkworth 
smiled  genially. 

The  colour  rushed  over  Janey's  cheeks  like 
a  wave,  then  as  a  wave  ebbed  out  again.  She 

201 


202  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

took  the  letter  with  a  hand  that  shook  piteously, 
her  lips  parted  and  a  low  laugh  broke  from 
them.  Then  suddenly  her  expression  changed — 
in  such  a  manner  that  Winkworth  muttered 
anxiously — 

"  Fine  afternoon,  ain't  it,  miss?  " 

'  Yes — a  glorious  afternoon.  Good-day,  Wink- 
worth." 

"  Good-day,  miss,"  and  he  shambled  off. 

Janey  turned  into  the  house,  and  dropping  into 
her  chair  by  the  table,  began  to  sob  childishly. 
It  was  more  from  exhaustion  than  grief — the 
exhaustion  of  hopes  strained  to  breaking-point,  and 
then  allowed  to  relax  again  into  disappointment 
and  frustration.  She  was  so  dreadfully  tired — she 
so  longed  to  sleep,  quietly,  deeply,  at  once.  She 
laid  her  head  on  the  table,  and  her  shoulders 
heaved,  straining  and  struggling  as  if  the  burden 
of  her  sorrow  were  physical. 

Then  suddenly  she  noticed  the  unopened  letter, 
and  her  sobs  broke  out  with  even  greater  vehe- 
mence. Nigel!  poor  Nigel!  She  had  not  opened 
his  letter — she  had  flung  it  aside  and  forgotten  it, 
because  it  was  not  Quentin's.  It  was  the  day  of 
his  concert,  too — what  a  beast  she  felt ! 

She  tore  open  the  envelope,  and  wiped  away  the 
tears  that  blinded  her. 

"  MY  OWN  DEAR  JANEY, 

"  This  is  just  to  keep  myself  from  thinking 
of  that  damned  concert.  It's  scaring  me  a  bit — 
more  than  a  bit,  in  fact.  Who  would  have  thought 
that  any  one  with  my  past  could  suffer  from  stage 


THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME   203 

fright? — but  that  little  thing  of  Scriabin's  is  the 
very  devil.  Old  von  G.  has  been  ragging  me  no 
end  over  it — we  nearly  came  to  blows  last  practice. 
I  hope  you  and  the  lad  don't  mind  my  not  wanting 
you  to  come  up  for  the  show;  I  feel  it  would  be 
the  last  straw  for  you  two  to  see  me  make  a  fool 
of  myself — not  that  I  mean  to,  but  you  never  know 
what  may  happen.  Cheer  up — you  shall  come  and 
help  me  when  I  fill  the  Albert  Hall. 

"  By  the  way,  I  saw  that  little  bounder  Quentin 
Lowe  at  a  concert  at  the  Queen's  last  Sunday. 

"Now,  good-bye;  I'm  turning  into  bed.  This 
time  to-morrow  it'll  all  be  over,  and  I'll  send  you  a 
telegram.  Greetings  to  the  lad. 

"  Ever  yours,  dear, 

"  NIGEL/' 

Janey  folded  the  letter  with  trembling  hands. 
It  filled  her  with  a  kind  of  pitiful  anguish,  for 
she  knew  that  the  only  thing  in  it  that  interested 
her  was  the  reference  to  Quentin.  Nigel's  wonder- 
ful concert,  about  which  she  and  Len  had  dreamed 
so  many  dreams,  had  faded  into  the  background  of 
her  thoughts,  driven  out  by  her  sleepless,  bruising 
anxiety  for  her  lover. 

It  was  over  a  fortnight  since  he  had  written. 
She  had  before  her  his  last  letter,  in  which  he 
said :  "  I  will  write  again  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
tell  you  the  exact  date  of  my  return."  She  had 
waited,  but  the  letter  had  not  come.  She  had 
written,  but  had  had  no  answer.  What  could  have 
happened  ? 


204  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

There  had  been  nothing  in  the  past  few  weeks 
to  make  her  expect  this  silence.  His  last  bid  for 
independence  had  met  with  more  success  than  the 
others.  He  had  fought  hard  against  failure  and 
discouragement,  and  had  now  found  work  on  one 
or  two  good  dailies.  Their  marriage  was  at  last 
in  sight.  He  was  expected  home  for  a  couple  of 
weeks'  holiday,  then  he  would  work  on  through 
the  autumn,  and  there  was  no  reason  why,  if 
things  prospered,  they  should  not  be  married  soon 
after  Christmas. 

Yes — at  last  their  marriage  was  a  thing  to  be 
reckoned  with,  talked  about,  and  planned  for. 
For  the  first  time  Janey  could  consider  such  things 
as  home  and  outfit,  breaking  the  news  to  her 
brothers,  and  leaving  Sparrow  Hall — all  were  now 
within  the  range  of  probability  and  expectation. 
But  a  terrible  gloom  had  settled  on  these  last 
days.  It  was  not  merely  her  sorrow  at  leaving  the 
farm  and  the  boys — it  was  something  less  account- 
able and  more  tempestuous  than  that.  It  had  its 
source  in  Quentin's  letters.  She  could  see  that  he 
was  not  happy — their  marriage,  their  longed-for, 
prayed-for,  wept-for,  worked-for  marriage,  was 
not  bringing  him  happiness.  On  the  contrary, 
his  suffering  seemed  to  have  increased.  His 
doubts  and  forebodings  had  been  transferred  from 
material  circumstances  to  more  subtle  terrors  of 
soul — he  doubted  the  future  more  passionately, 
because  more  spiritually,  than  ever. 

Janey  had  not  been  able  to  understand  this  at 
first,  but  in  time  his  attitude  had  communicated 
itself  to  her,  though  whether  her  distrust  was  in- 


THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME  205 

dependent  or  merely  a  reflection  of  his,  it  would 
be  hard  to  say.  Anyhow,  she  doubted — fiercely, 
miserably,  despondingly.  She  had  started,  on  his 
recommendation,  to  make  herself  some  clothes, 
but  the  work  lagged  and  depressed  her.  She  found 
herself  hungering  for  the  early  times  of  their  court- 
ship, when  their  marriage  was  a  dream  made 
golden  by  distance.  She  thought  of  the  days 
when  his  name  had  rung  like  bells  in  her  heart, 
without  a  horrid  dissonance  of  fear,  when  his  letters 
were  pure  joy,  and  the  thought  of  meeting  him 
pure  anticipation.  Would  those  days  return? — 
And  now,  here  was  his  silence,  consuming  her. 
Why  didn't  he  write?  He  had  been  so  eager  in 
his  last  letter,  though,  as  usual,  eagerness  had 
soon  been  throttled  by  despair. 

"  I  shall  have  you — I  shall  have  you  at  last,  my 
beautiful,  tall  Janey,  for  whom  I  hunger.  But  I 
am  filled  with  doubts.  There  are  some  men  in 
whose  mouths  manna  turns  to  dust  and  the  water 
of  life  to  gall.  Everything  I  touch  is  doomed. 
Either  my  soul  or  my  body  betrays  me — my  soul 
is  so  hot  and  my  body  so  weak — so  damnably 
weak.  If  only  my  hot  soul  had  been  given  a 
stout  body,  or  my  weak  body  a  weak  soul  .  .  .  then 
I  should  have  been  happy.  But  now  it  is  the  eternal 
fight  between  fire  and  water." 

Janey  pushed  the  letter  aside,  and  picked  up 
another.  She  had  been  trying  to  comfort  herself 
with  Quentin's  letters,  but  they  were  not  on  the 
whole  of  a  comforting  nature.  His  restless  misery 
was  in  them  all.  If  his  last  letter  had  been  happy, 


206 

she  would  not  have  worried  nearly  so  much.  She 
would  have  put  down  his  silence  to  some  trite 
external  cause — pressure  of  work  or  indefiniteness 
of  plans — he  had  always  been  an  erratic  corre- 
spondent. But  his  unhappiness  opened  a  dozen 
roads  to  her  morbid  imaginings.  It  was  dreadful 
to  think  that  all  she  had  given  to  Quentin  had 
only  made  him  more  unhappy. 

Perhaps  he  was  too  miserable  to  write — not 
likely,  since  he  was  one  of  those  men  whom  despair 
makes  voluble,  but  nevertheless  a  real  terror  to  her 
unreason.  Perhaps  he  had  not  received  her  last 
letter,  and  thought  that  she  had  played  him  false 
— he  had  always  been  jealous  and  inclined  to 
suspicion.  This  last  idea  obtained  a  hold  on  her 
that  would  have  been  impossible  had  not  her  mind 
been  weakened  by  anxiety.  She  had  heard  of 
letters  going  astray  in  the  post,  and  probably 
Quentin  had  been  expecting  one  from  her,  and 
not  receiving  it  had  been  too  proud  to  write  him- 
self. Or  perhaps  he  had  received  it,  but  had 
thought  it  cold.  He  had  often  taken  her  to  task 
for  some  fancied  coldness  which  she  had  never 
meant. 

In  her  desperation  she  resolved  to  write  again. 
Hastily  cramming  his  letters  into  the  boot-box 
where  she  unromantically  kept  them,  she  seized 
paper  and  ink,  and  began  to  scrawl  despair- 
ingly— 

"  MY  DARLING,  DARLING  BOY, 

"  Why  don't  you  write  ?    Didn't  you  get  my 
last  letter?     I  posted  it  on  the  i6th,     Quentin,  I 


THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME   207 

can't  stand  this  suspense.  Are  you  unhappy? 
Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy,  my  heart  aches  for  you.  I 
know  you  suffer — and  I  can't  bear  it- " 

The  pen  fell  from  her  shaking  hand  as  footsteps 
sounded  in  the  garden.  The  next  minute  Leonard 
came  in — luckily  for  Janet  he  was  not  very 
observant. 

"  Well,  Janey — I've  sent  off  the  wire." 

"  What  wire?  "  she  asked  dully. 

"  To  the  old  bounder,  of  course — to  buck  him  up 
for  to-night.  I  said  '  Cheer  up.  You'll  soon  be 
dead.'  That  ought  to  encourage  him." 

Janey  smiled  wanly. 

"  Meantime  I've  got  a  piece  of  news  for  you. 
It'll  make  you  laugh.  But  let's  have  a  drink  first 
— I'm  dreadfully  thirsty.  This  weather  dries  one 
up  like  blazes." 

"  There's  beer  in  the  cupboard." 

"  Right-O !  Now  we'll  drink  to  Nigel's  very 
good  health.  Have  some,  old  girl.  No?  But  I 
say,  you  look  as  if  you  needed  it.  You're  as  white 
as  chalk." 

"  It's  only  the  heat.    What's  your  news,  Len?  " 

"  Nothing  much,  really — only  that  little  mis- 
shapen monkey  Quentin  Lowe's  engaged  to  be 
married." 

"  Quentin  Lowe.  .  .  ." 

Janey's  voice  seemed  to  her  to  come  from 
very  far  away,  as  if  some  one  in  another  part 
of  the  room  were  speaking.  She  grew  sick  and 
faint,  but  at  the  same  time  knew  it  was  all 
ridiculous. 


208  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Yes — I  don't  wonder  you're  surprised.  Guess 
whom  to." 

"  Are  you  sure — quite  sure?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  I  had  it  from  his  father. 
Guess  whom  to." 

"  I  can't.  .  .  .  I — I  can't  believe  it." 

"Yes,  it's  no  end  of  a  joke,  isn't  it?  You'd 
never  think  a  woman  would  be  fool  enough  to  have 
him,  when  you  can  get  the  genuine  article  from 
any  organ-grinder.  But  stop  laughing,  Janey, 
and  guess  who  it  is." 

"  I — I  can't.  .  .  .  Did  you  really  hear  it  from 
his  father?  ...  It  can't  be  true.  Quentin's  in 
London." 

"  He's  been  there  for  the  last  three  months,  but 
he  came  home  on  Wednesday." 

"  Wednesday " 

"  Yes — why  not  ?  But  you  haven't  guessed  who 
the  girl  is  yet." 

"  I  can't  guess  .  .  .  tell  me,  Len." 

"  Well,  it's  Strife's  youngest  daughter,  the  one 
that's  just  come  out." 

Janet  made  a  grab  at  Leonard's  half -emptied 
glass  and  drained  it. 

"  That's  it— drink  her  health.    She'll  need  it." 

"  Len — did — did  you  really  hear  it  from  old 
Lowe?  " 

"  Well,  I  heard  it  first  of  all  in  the  Wheatsheaf. 
I've  been  as  thirsty  as  hell  all  the  afternoon,  so 
on  my  way  back  from  the  post-office  I  turned  in 
at  the  old  pub  for  a  pint.  Dunk  told  me,  Dunk 
of  Golden  Compasses.  Then  no  sooner  had  I  got 
outside  than  I  saw  the  old  devil-dodger  prancing 


THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME   209 

along,,  and  I  couldn't  resist  howling  to  him— - 
1  Hear  your  son's  engaged — wish  him  victory  in 
the  strife.'  He  looked  poisonous,  so  I  just  said, 
'  You'll  be  letting  strife  into  your  household.'  To 
which  he  deigned  reply,  *  I  am — ah — um — com- 
pletely— ah — satisfied  with  my — ah — son's — um — 
matrimonial  choice." 

Janey  managed  to  reach  the  window. 

"He  met  her  a  lot  in  town,  I  believe.  Of  course, 
he'd  known  her  father  down  here,  but  had  never 
met  the  girl  herself.  I  believe  it  all  happened 
pretty  quick.  Dunk  says  so.  I  don't  see  how  he 
knows,  but  every  one  always  seems  to  know  every- 
thing about  engaged  couples." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  What  more  do  you  want  ? — I'm  off  now  to 
Cherrygarden  Farm — I  promised  Wilsher  I'd  be 
round  to  look  at  those  chicks  of  his." 

"  Don't  be  long.  .  .  ." 

"  What  time's  supper?  " 

"  Any  time  you  like." 

"  Well,  make  it  half-past  eight.  It's  a  good  peg 
over  to  Cherrygarden,  and  if  I  come  back  by 
Dormans  I  can  send  another  wire  to  Nigel." 

"Oh,  don't,  Len!" 

"Why  ever  not?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  it's  so  ...  so  very  important 
that  he  should  know." 

"About  what?" 

"  The — the  engagement." 

"  You  silly  old  girl !  I  wasn't  going  to  wire 
him  about  that — waste  of  a  good  sixpence  that 
would  be!  But  don't  you  realise  that  at  eight  to- 
14 


210  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

night  the  concert  begins?  I  telegraphed  to  him 
an  hour  ago,  just  to  buck  him  up  beforehand — 
next  time  I  want  to  catch  him  in  full  squeak." 

"  Very  well— but,  Len  .  .  .  don't  be  late." 

She  was  still  standing  by  the  window,  but  some- 
thing in  her  words  made  him  go  across  to  her. 

"  You're  feeling  seedy,  Janey?  " 

"  Just  a  bit  washed-out." 

"  It's  the  heat,  I  expect.  It's  made  me  feel  a 
little  queer  too." 

"  Then  ought  you  to  go  to  Cherrygarden  ?  " 

"  I  must — and  it's  getting  cooler  now.  Take 
care  of  yourself,  old  sister,  and  don't  sit  too  much 
in  this  hot  kitchen." 

He  squeezed  her  hand,  and  went  out.  She 
watched  him  go,  blessing  his  obtuseness,  even 
though  it  was  leaving  her  to  fight  through  her 
awful  hour  alone.  He  went  down  the  path,  and 
out  at  the  gate — then  she  staggered  back  into  the 
room,  and  fell  in  a  heap  against  the  table. 

She  had  not  fainted,  though  she  longed  to  faint 
— to  win  the  respite  of  forget  fulness  at  whatever 
cost,  if  only  for  a  minute.  She  lay  an  inert, 
huddled  mass  against  the  table-leg,  motionless 
except  for  a  long  shudder  now  and  then.  All 
power  had  left  her  limbs — they  indeed  might  be 
in  a  swoon — but  her  brain  throbbed  with  a  dazzling 
consciousness;  it  seemed  as  if  it  had  drawn  into 
itself  all  the  consciousness  of  her  body,  leaving 
senses  dull,  nerves  dumb,  and  muscles  slack,  in 
order  to  prime  itself  with  the  whole  range  of 
feeling. 


THE  LETTER  THAT  DID  NOT  COME      211 

Strange  to  say,  pain  was  not  the  paramount 
emotion,  and  despair  was  scarcely  present.  Rather, 
she  was  consumed  by  a  passionate  sense  of  doubt 
— of  Quentin,  of  herself,  of  the  whole  world.  It 
was  like  the  sudden  removal  of  a  prop  which  one 
had  thought  could  not  be  shaken — it  was  like  a 
sudden  precipitation  into  a  world  where  the 
ordinary  cosmic  laws  did  not  hold — she  seemed 
almost  to  doubt  her  own  identity  in  that  first  gasp 
of  revelation. 

It  could  not  be  true.  Quentin  could  not  have 
failed  her  like  this.  Leonard  must  be  mistaken. 
If  one  were  to  see  the  sun  setting  in  the  east  or 
the  sea  on  fire  one  would  doubt  one's  senses, 
one  would  not  doubt  the  universal  laws.  Neither 
would  she  doubt  Quentin — she  rather  would  doubt 
Leonard's  senses,  doubt  her  own. 

She  had  not  in  the  whole  course  of  her  love 
doubted  Quentin.  It  was  he  who  had  doubted 
her,  who  had  tormented  her  with  his  distrusts  and 
jealousies.  "  I'm  only  a  misshapen  little  bounder, 
Janey — the  first  decent  man  who  comes  along  will 
snatch  you  from  me.  But  he  will  never  love  you 
as  I  do — Janey,  Janey,  little  Janey  "...  the  words 
seemed  to  come  from  outside  her,  from  the  shadowy 
corners  of  the  room.  She  sat  up  and  listened. 
They  came  again — "  Janey,  my  own  little  love,  my 
little  heart — our  love  wounds,  but  it  is  the  wound 
of  immortality,  the  wound  which  must  always  be 
when  the  Infinitely  Great  lifts  up  and  gathers  to 
itself  the  infinitely  little."  .  .  .  "Stand  by  me, 
stand  by  me — I  have  nothing  but  my  sword.  I 
threw  away  my  shield  long  ago.  If  you  do  not 


212  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

stand  by  me  I  shall  fall."  ..."  Janey,  love,  dear 
little  love,  with  eyes  like  September."  .  .  . 

She  crouched  back  in  terror.  Was  she  going 
mad?  No,  these  were  only  words  from  Quentin's 
letters — the  letters  she  had  just  read — ringing  in  her 
strung  and  distracted  brain. 

"  Love,  my  little  sweet  love,  do  you  think  of 
me  sometimes  in  the  long  evenings  when  I  think 
of  you? — sometimes  when  I  am  thinking  of  you,  I 
tremble  lest  you  should  not  be  thinking  of  me." 
..."  Do  you  know  how  often  I  dream  of  you, 
Janey?  You  come  to  me  so  often  in  sleep — once 
you  stood  between  me  and  the  window,  and  I  saw 
the  stars  through  your  hair.  Oh,  God! — when  I 
dream  I  hold  you  in  my  arms,  and  wake  with  them 
empty."  .  .  . 

She  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  sprang  to 
her  feet — the  strength  of  desperation  had  come  at 
last.  There  was  one  only  who  could  tell  her  which 
she  was  to  doubt — her  own  senses  or,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  the  cosmic  laws  of  his  love. 

She  would  go  over  to  Redpale  Farm — she  would 
see  Quentin,  she  would  have  an  explanation. 
There  would  be  one — and  she  would  take  her  stand 
boldly  beside  him,  against  his  father,  against  the 
whole  world — though  she,  like  him,  had  thrown 
away  her  shield  long  ago. 


CHAPTER  III 

ONLY  A   BOY 

IT  was  about  four  o'clock,  and  in  spite  of  what 
Leonard  said,  not  much  cooler  than  at  noon.  The 
sun  scorched  on  the  hay-grass,  drawing  out  of  it 
a  drowsy  perfume,  which  a  faint,  hot  breeze  scat- 
tered into  the  hedges.  The  trees  scarcely  moved, 
and  their  shadows  were  rusted  with  the  curling 
sorrel.  Clumps  of  dog-roses  and  elder  flowers 
splashed  the  bushes  with  sudden  pinks  and  whites, 
while  vetches  trailed  their  purples  less  startlingly 
in  the  hedgerows. 

Janey  walked  fast,  and  every  now  and  then  she 
ran  for  little  sprints.  Her  breath  sobbed  in  her 
throat,  her  eyes  were  fixed  and  her  hands  clenched. 
She  climbed  recklessly  over  gates,  and  plunged 
through  copses;  her  hair  was  soon  almost  on  her 
shoulders,  flying  from  her  face  in  wisps,  straggling 
round  her  ears;  her  face  became  flushed  and  moist 
with  the  heat — she  tore  her  sleeve,  and  scraps  of 
bramble  hung  on  her  skirt.  What  woman  but 
Janey  would  have  rushed  to  confront  a  faithless 
lover  in  such  a  state?  But  even  now,  when  almost 
any  one  would  have  realised  how  much  depended 
on  her  appearance,  she  was  careless  and  oblivious. 
She  did  not  feel  in  the  least  dismayed  at  the 
start  given  by  the  servant  who  admitted  her,  nor, 
later,  by  her  own  reflection  in  a  mirror  in  the 
study. 

It  was  the  same  little  book-lined  room  in  which 

213 


214  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

she  had  had  tea  with  Quentin  on  her  first  visit  to 
Redpale.  There  was  the  glorious  Eastern  rug 
which  he  had  said  "  had  her  tintings — her  browns 
and  whites  and  reds."  There  was  the  big  pewter 
jar  that  had  then  held  chrysanthemums,  but  held 
roses  now.  They  were  delicate  white  roses,  faintly, 
sweetly  scented.  Janey  went  over  to  them  and  laid 
her  hot  face  against  them.  She  could  hardly  tell 
why,  but  they  seemed  to  bring  into  the  room  an 
alien  atmosphere.  Quentin  had  never  given  her 
white  roses — as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  given  her 
scarcely  any  garden  flowers,  except  chrysanthe- 
mums— he  had  once  said  that  only  wild  flowers 
were  for  wild  things.  She  thought  of  bunches  of 
buttercups,  of  broom  with  bursting  pods,  of  hazel 
sprays  and  tawny  grasses.  Now  she  suddenly 
wished  that  he  would  give  her  a  white  rose.  She 
took  one  out  of  the  jar,  and  was  trying  to  fasten  it 
in  her  breast  when  footsteps  sounded  outside  the 
room. 

She  turned  deadly  pale,  and  dropped  the  rose. 
For  the  first  time  she  felt  that  she  had  been  foolish 
to  come.  Quentin  might  be  angry  with  her,  for 
her  coming  would  rouse  his  father's  suspicions. 
Her  hurry  and  desperation  might  prejudice  him 
against  her.  In  an  unaccustomed  qualm  she  real- 
ised that  she  was  flushed,  dishevelled  and  perspir- 
ing. She  felt  at  a  disadvantage,  and  drew  back  as 
the  door  opened,  seeking  the  shadows  by  the 
hearth. 

"Janey!" 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  hand  on  the  latch, 
his  chin  thrust  forward,  his  pale  face  bright  in  the 


ONLY  A  BOY  215 

gleaming  afternoon.  His  youth  struck  her  with  a 
sudden  appeal — his  youth  and  delicacy,  both 
emphasised  in  the  soft  yellow  light — and  a  sob  tore 
up  through  her  breast. 

"  Oh  .  .  ."  she  said,  and  moved  towards  him. 

He  shut  the  door. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry  I  came !  "  she  cried. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  came  forward,  stopping 
abruptly  a  few  feet  away. 

"  Janey — I  want  to  explain.  .  .  ." 

"  Explain  .  .  ."  She  had  not  thought  there 
would  be  any  explanation  needed — or,  if  needed, 
possible. 

"  Yes — I  ought  to  have  written,  but  I  couldn't, 
somehow — or  rather,  I  wrote  you  a  dozen  letters, 
and  tore  them  all  up." 

She  wondered  why  she  felt  so  calm. 

"  I — I  asked  my  father  to  call  and  see  you." 

"  You  mean  to  say — he  knows?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

Her  calmness  staggered,  and  all  but  collapsed. 
For  the  first  time  her  doubts  gave  way  to  even 
bitterer  realisation.  This  confession  to  Quentin's 
father,  this  betrayal  of  the  secret  she  had  spent 
her  health  and  happiness  for  four  years  to  keep, 
made  her  grasp  what  an  hour  ago  had  seemed 
beyond  the  reach  even  of  credulity. 

"  Quentin — why  did  you  tell  him? — how  could 
you ! — after  all  we've  suffered.  .  .  ." 

"  I — I — I  was  desperate,  Janey,  I  had  to  tdl 
some  one,  and  he  was  so  sympathetic — much  more 
than  I'd  expected." 


216  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"When  did  you  tell  him?" 

"  The  night  I  came  back  from  town." 

"  After  the — the  rest  was  settled?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  Quentin,  have  you  told  her?  "  She  was  accept- 
ing the  impossible  quite  meekly  now. 

"  No,  no!— I  can't  tell  her." 

She  waited  a  moment  for  what  she  thought  the 
inevitable  entreaty  not  to  betray  him.  Thank 
God ! — it  did  not  come. 

"  She  would  never  forgive  you,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  Young  girls  don't." 

"  And  you,  Janey  ..." 

She  drew  back  from  him. 

"  You  can't  ask  me  that  now." 

"Why?" 

"  Well — well,  can't  you  see  I  hardly  realise 
things  as  yet.  An  hour  ago  I  preferred  to  doubt 
my  own  senses  rather  than  doubt  you.  Now " 

"  You  doubt  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  doubt  you.  I'm  convinced — that 
you're  a  cad." 

Her  voice,  clear  at  the  beginning  of  the  sentence, 
had  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  He  shrank  back, 
wincing  before  her  gentleness. 

She  herself  wondered  how  long  it  would  last, 
this  unnatural  calm.  It  came  to  her  quite  easily, 
she  did  not  have  to  fight  for  it,  and  yet  the  general 
sensation  was  of  being  under  an  anaesthetic.  She 
only  half  realised  her  surroundings,  this  horrible 
new  earth  on  which  she  was  wandering  homeless; 
her  emotions  seemed  dull  and  inadequate  to  the 
situation — it  would  be  a  relief  if  she  could  feel  more. 


ONLY  A  BOY  217 

Then  suddenly  feeling  came — it  came  in  a  tide, 
a  tempest,  a  whirlwind.  It  shook  her  like  an  earth- 
quake and  blasted  her  like  a  furnace.  She  stag- 
gered sideways,  as  a  great  gloom  darkled  on  her 
eyes.  Then  the  shadows  parted,  and  she  saw 
Quentin's  face,  half  turned  away — pale,  fragile, 
sullen,  the  face  of  a  boy — of  a  boy  in  despair. 

"  Quentin !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  my  boy — my  little 
boy !  You  aren't  going  to  behave  like  a  cad." 

"  But  I  am  a  cad,  my  dear  Janey." 

He  spoke  brutally,  in  the  stress  of  feeling. 

"  Oh,  Quentin !— Quentin !  " 

She  was  losing  not  only  her  calm,  but  her 
dignity — yet  she  did  not  heed  it.  She  sprang 
towards  him,  seized  his  hands,  and  gasped  her  words 
close  to  his  ear,  as  unconsciously  he  turned  his  head 
from  her. 

"  Quentin,  you  can't  forsake  me — not  now — not 
after  all  I've  given  /you — you  can't,  you  can't! 
You  loved  me  so  much — you  love  me  still.  You 
can't  have  stopped  loving  me  all  of  a  sudden  like 
this.  And  if  you  love  me,  you  can't  forsake  me. 
Quentin,  I  shall  die  if  you  forsake  me." 

"Janey — let  me  explain.  I  can't  explain  if 
you're  so  frenzied.  Oh,  Janey,  don't  faint." 

She  fell  back  from  him  suddenly,  and  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms. 

The  soft  weight  of  her,  her  warmth,  the  familiar 
scent  of  her  hair  and  her  tumbled  gown,  snatched 
him  back  into  departing  days.  He  suddenly  lost 
his  self-command,  or  rather  his  sense  of  the 
present.  He  clasped  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  and 
kissed  her — as  eagerly,  passionately  and  tenderly  as 


218  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

ever  in  Furnace  Wood.  She  did  not  resist  or  shrink, 
her  eyes  were  closed,  and  she  lay  back  a  dead  weight 
in  his  arms,  drinking  her  last  despairing  draught 
of  happiness.  .  .  .  His  clasp  grew  tighter — oh, 
that  he  would  crush  the  life  out  of  her  as  she  lay 
there  under  his  lips !  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  he  dropped  his  arms,  and  they 
staggered  back  from  each  other,  piteously  conscious 
once  more  of  the  present  and  its  doom. 

"  Janey,  Janey  ...  I  can't — I  mustn't  love  you." 

"  But  you  do  love  me " 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face. 

"  Yes — I  love  you.  But  it's  in  byways  of  love. 
Can't  you  understand?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't  you  see  that,  all  through,  my  love  for 
you  has  been  unworthy — the  worst  in  me?  .  .  ." 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  her  words  were  unin- 
telligible. 

"  You  and  I  have  never  been  happy  together " 

.  "  Never?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes — at  times.  But  it  was  a  blasting,  scorch- 
ing happiness — there  was  no  peace  in  it.  We 
doubted  each  other." 

"  I  never  doubted  you." 

"  Yes,  you  did.  When  I  said  good-bye  to  you 
before  going  to  London,  you  made  me  promise  never 
to  forget  how  much  I'd  loved  you." 

"  But  it  wasn't  you  I  doubted  then.  I  doubted 
fate,  chance,  God,  anything  you  like — but  not  you." 

She  had  recovered  her  self-control,  and  her  voice 
was  hard  and  even. 

"Oh,  don't,  Janey!" 


ONLY  A  BOY  219 

"  Why  not  ? — why  should  I  spare  you  ?  You 
haven't  spared  me." 

"  You  mustn't  think  I  intended  you  to — to 
hear  things  in  this  way.  I'd  meant  to  give 
you  an  explanation  first.  But  the  news  leaked 
out " 

"  Well,  you  can  give  me  an  explanation  now." 

"  I'll  try— but  it  will  be  very  difficult,"  he  said 
falteringly.  "  You're  like  a  flood  to  me — I  feel 
giddy  and  helpless  when  I'm  with  you.  I  don't 
think  I'll  ever  be  able  to  make  you  understand.  I 
wish  you  hadn't  come  like  this — I  wish " 

"  Please  go  on,  Quentin." 

Her  manner  disconcerted  him.  He  could  not 
understand  her  alternations  between  hysteria  and 
stolid  calm. 

"  You  mustn't  think  I  don't  realise  I've  behaved 
like  a  skunk.  But  I  don't  want  to  dwell  on  it — 
it  would  only  be  putting  mud  on  my  face  to  make 
you  pity  me — but  I  do  ask  you  to  try  to  under- 
stand me.  .  .  .  Janey,  I've  done  this  for  your  good 
as  well  as  mine.  You  shared  the  misery  and  ruin 
of  my  love.  In  saving  myself,  I've  saved  you 
too.  Janey,  Janey — don't  you  see  that  our  love  was 
nothing  but  a  rotten  sickness  of  the  soul?  " 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  but  her  face  was 
expressionless  as  wood. 

"  You  and  I  have  always  been  more  or  less 
wretched  together,  and  though  at  first  I  felt  our 
unhappiness  was  doing  us  good — strengthening 
us  and  purifying  us — of  late  I  felt  it  was  doing 
us  harm,  it  was  disorganising  and  unmanning 
us. 


220  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

He  paused — even  an  outburst  of  fury  or  denial 
would  have  been  welcome. 

"  To  begin  with,"  he  continued  in  an  uncertain 
voice,  "  I  thought  it  was  the  hopelessness  of  it  all 
that  was  making  it  so  dreadful,  but  when  our 
marriage  was  actually  in  sight — of  hope,  at  least — 
I  felt  matters  were  only  getting  worse*  My 
thoughts  were  like  sand  and  fire — my  love  was  like 
the  salt  water  I  compared  it  to  long  ago,  with 
madness  in  each  draught.  I  felt  our  marriage 
would  be  a  bigger  hell  than  anything  that  had  gone 
before  it — and  yet,  I  wanted  you!  Oh,  God!  I 
wanted  you ! " 

She  bowed  forward  suddenly,  over  her  clenched 
hands. 

"  Janey,  Janey — I  don't  want  to  hurt  you  more 
than  I  must.  It's  not  your  fault  that  every  thought 
of  you  was  fire  and  poison  to  me.  You  were  just 
a  weapon  in  fate's  hands  to  wound  me — we  were 
both  in  fate's  hands,  to  wound  each  other." 

Paradoxically  it  was  at  that  moment  the  old 
impulse  returned.  He  came  forward,  holding  out 
his  arms  to  her.  But  this  time  she  shrank  back, 
cowering  into  the  chair.  Her  movement  brought 
him  to  his  senses. 

"  You  see  how  I  can  hardly  speak  to  you.  I 
must  get  on,  and  get  done.  I  want  to  tell  you  how 
I  met  her  .  .  ,  Tony." 

Janey  shuddered.  She  had  now  come  to  the 
most  awful  pain  of  all. 

"  Tony  .  .  . "  repeated  Quentin.  She  noticed 
how  he  dwelt  on  the  word,  as  if  he  were  drawing 
strength  from  it,  and  at  the  same  time  she  saw  a 


ONLY  A  BOY  221 

slight  change  in  his  manner.  He  lifted  his  head 
and  spoke  more  steadily. 

"  I  met  her  at  a  literary  function,  and  I  sat  beside 
her  all  the  evening.  I  remember  every  minute — 
I  didn't  speak  much,  nor  did  she,  but  a  wonderful 
simplicity  and  calm  seemed  to  radiate  from  her,  a 
beautiful  innocence What  is  it,  Janey?" 

"  Nothing — go  on." 

"  She  was  so  young,  scarcely  more  than  a  child — 
young  and  sweet.  When  I  got  home  that  night  I 
felt  for  the  first  time  an  infinite  peace  in  my  soul 
• — I  felt  all  quiet  and  simple.  I  didn't  worry  or 
brood  any  more.  I  wasn't  in  love  with  her  then 
— oh,  no! — but  I  wanted  to  meet  her  again,  just 
for  the  quiet  of  it.  I  did  meet  her  shortly  after- 
wards, and  it  was  as  beautiful  as  before.  Then 
suddenly  it  all  rushed  over  me — I  wanted  her,  for 
my  own;  because  she  was  pure  and  childlike  and 
simple  and  inexperienced." 

The  confidence  of  his  voice  had  grown,  and  in 
his  eyes  was  something  Janey  had  never  seen 
there  before.  She  now  realised  a  little  what  Tony 
meant  to  him — what  she,  Janey,  had  never  meant. 
She  knew  now  that  she  could  never  win  him  back, 
and  more,  that  she  did  not  particularly  want  to. 
Tony  stood  to  Quentin  for  all  that  was  lovely  and 
heroic  in  womanhood,  whereas  she,  his  Janey,  had 
never  been  more  to  him  than  the  incarnation  of 
his  own  desperate  passions.  She  stepped  back, 
and  the  action  was  symbolical — she  stepped  out  of 
his  way.  Her  pleadings  would  no  longer  harass 
and  shake  him,  she  would  leave  him  to  his  salva- 


222  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

tion,  since  he  loved  it  better  than  the  woman  who 
had  meekly  renounced  hers  for  his  sake. 

"  I  grew  desperate  for  her,"  continued  Quentin, 
in  the  new  assured  voice.  "  Oh,  don't  think  I  gave 
you  up  without  a  struggle! — I  had  a  dreadful  time. 
I  suffered  horribly.  But  what  will  not  a  man  do 
for  his  soul?  I  felt  that  my  soul  was  at  stake. 
It's  damned  rot  to  talk  of  men  turning  away  from 
salvation — no  man  can  get  a  real  chance  of  salva- 
tion and  not  grasp  it  at  once.  Oh,  don't  think 
it  didn't  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  treat  you  as  I  did! 
I  felt  a  swine  and  a  cad,  but  I  saw  that  I  was  grasp- 
ing my  only  chance  of  redemption — and  yours  too. 
I  couldn't  help  it,  I  tell  you — no  man  can.  Oh, 
don't  think  that  if  I  could  have  saved  myself  with 
you,  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  rather  than.  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  God!— but  I  couldn't." 

There  are  moments  in  a  woman's  life  when  she 
is  simply  staggered  by  the  selfishness  of  the  male, 
and  yet  to  every  woman  there  is  something  inevit- 
able about  it,  so  that  it  does  not  stir  up  her  rage 
and  contempt,  as  it  would  if  she  saw  it  in  her  own 
sex.  Janey  felt  no  anger  with  Quentin,  she  only 
thought  how  pitifully  young  he  looked. 

There  was  a  pause — a  long  pause,  broken  by  the 
rustling  of  the  wind  in  the  garden.  Janey's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Quentin's  face,  her  whole  being 
seemed  concentrated  upon  it,  all  her  thoughts,  all 
her  passion,  all  her  pity.  Poor  child!  poor,  poor 
boy! 

"  Tony  is  very  young,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  only  seventeen." 

"  And  she's  very  good  and  gentle  and  well-bred." 


ONLY  A  BOY  223 

He  nodded. 

"  And  she's  never  done  anything  really  wrong." 

"  No." 

There  was  another  silence.  This  time  it  was 
Quentin  who  stared  at  Janey.  He  was  still  strong 
in  the  assurance  Tony  gave  him;  he  was  glad  that 
they  had  begun  to  discuss  her — he  had  not  that 
feeling  of  being  left  alone  with  Janey,  which  at 
first  had  threatened  to  make  the  interview  so 
terrible.  At  one  time  it  had  seemed  almost  as  if 
the  past  had  risen  to  swamp  him — but  now  Tony 
had  come  to  hold  back  the  floods.  The  thought 
of  her  changed  everything  somehow,  altered  the  old 
values,  weakened  what  before  had  been  invincible. 
Janey's  face  stood  out  from  the  shadows,  washed 
in  the  indiscreet  light  of  the  afternoon,  and  for 
the  first  time  he  noticed  a  certain  age  and  weariness 
about  it.  She  was  twenty-eight,  nearly  four  years 
older  than  he,  but  he  had  never  thought  of  her  in 
relation  to  years  and  time.  She  had  been  to  him 
an  eternity  of  youth,  her  age  was  as  irrelevant  as 
the  age  of  a  play  of  Shakespeare  or  a  symphony 
of  Beethoven.  But  now  he  realised  that  she  was 
twenty-eight — and  looked  it.  There  were  hollows 
under  her  cheek-bones,  where  full,  firm  flesh  should 
have  been;  there  were  tiny  lines  branching  from 
the  corners  of  her  eyes,  very  faint,  still  undoubt- 
edly there;  and  the  autumnal  colour  on  her  cheeks 
did  not  lie  as  evenly  as  it  might. 

These  discoveries  brought  him  a  strange  sense 
of  relief.  He  had  hitherto  looked  on  her  loveli- 
ness as  unapproachable,  and  the  thought  of  her 
physical  perfection  had  been  a  mighty  factor  in 


S24  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

the  war  that  had  raged  so  devastatingly  in  his 
heart.  But  now  he  saw  that  it  was  no  longer  to 
be  reckoned  with.  Tony  was,  in  point  of  fact, 
more  beautiful  than  Janey.  His  eyes  travelled 
down  from  her  face,  and  saw  her  collar  all  askew, 
her  blouse  hanging  sloppily  out  at  the  waist, 
her  shoe-string  untied.  Tony  always  wore  such 
dainty  muslins,  such  soft,  pretty  white  things. 
.  .  .  Then  he  noticed  Janey's  hair.  For  the  first 
time  he  wondered  whether  she  brushed  it  often 
enough. 

His  spirits  revived  wonderfully  during  this  con- 
templation, and  with  them  a  surge  of  tender  pity 
towards  her.  He  did  not  want  her  to  feel  humil- 
iated by  his  unfaithfulness. 

"Janey,  you  mustn't  think  I  don't  thank  you 
and  honour  you  for  all  you've  been  to  me." 

"  You  don't  know  what  I've  been  to  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  You  don't  realise  what  I've  sacrificed  for  you. 
You  talk  of  Tony  Strife's  purity  and  innocence 
as  if  it  was  more  to  her  credit  to  have  them  than 
for  me  to  have  given  them  up — for  your  sake." 

"  Janey " 

"  Listen,  Quentin.  There's  one  thing  this  girl 
will  never  do  for  you — I  did  it — and  I  think  that 
now  you  despise  me  for  it,  in  spite  of  your  words. 
You  don't  know  what  it  cost  me.  I  did  my  best 
to  hide  my  pain  from  you,  because  you  were  happy ; 
but  now  I  think  you  ought  to  know  that  this  thing 
for  which  you  despise  me  was — was  the  greatest 
act  of  self-sacrifice  in  my  whole  life.  Oh,  Quentin, 
I  always  meant  to  keep  straight,  because  of  my 


ONLY  A  BOY  225 

brothers,  and  because — because  I  wanted  to  be  pure 
and  good.  Oh,  I  loved  goodness  and  purity — I 
love  them  still,  quite  as  much  as  Tony  Strife  loves 
them — and  there  were  the  poor  boys,  with  only  my 
example  to  restrain  them.  And  then  I  loved  you — 
and  you  asked  me  to  climb  over  the  gates  of  Para- 
dise with  you,  because  they  would  never  be 
unlocked.  Oh,  God!  I  yielded  because  I  loved 
you  so.  I  gave  up  what  was  dearer  to  me  than 
anything  else  in  the  world,  the  one  thing  I  was 
struggling  to  keep  unspotted,  for  my  own  sake 
and  the  boys'.  I  gave  it  up  to  you — and  now 
.  .  .  and  now  .  .  .  you  talk  about  another  woman's 
purity  and  innocence." 

Her  voice  died  into  tearless  silence. 

"  Janey,  you  mustn't  feel  like  that — you  mustn't 
think  that  I  reproach  you.  It's  myself  I  blame — 
not  you." 

"  But  you  do — you  do — and  I  ought  to  have 
known  it  from  the  first." 

He  could  not  speak,  the  words  stuck  to  his  tongue 
— he  wanted  to  fall  at  her  feet,  but  could  not,  for 
he  knew  it  would  be  mockery. 

"I  can't  say  anything,"  he  stammered  huskily; 
"  we're  just  the  victims  of  a  damnable  mistake,  and 
the  less  we  say  about  it  the  better.  Each  word 
one  of  us  speaks  is  a  wound  for  the  other.  There's 
only  this  left — 

'  And  throughout  all  eternity 
I  forgive  you,  you  forgive  me — 
As  our  dear  Redeemer  said : 
This  the  wine  and  this  the  bread.' " 
15 


226  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  You  don't  believe  in  the  dear  Redeemer,  do 
you?" 

"  Of  course  not — but  it's  poetry." 

They  had  neither  of  them  realised  that  the 
interview  was  near  an  end,  but  these  last 
words  seemed  to  have  finished  it  somehow.  They 
were  both  standing,  and  the  silence  remained 
unbroken. 

Then  suddenly  Janey  moved.  An  absolutely 
new  impulse  had  seized  her.  She  went  over  to  the 
glass,  and  looked  at  herself  in  it.  Then  she 
smoothed  her  hair,  arranged  her  gown,  made  it 
tidy  at  the  waist,  and  buttoned  it  at  the  wrists. 
Quentin  watched  her  in  blank  wonder — he  had 
never  before  seen  her  pay  the  slightest  heed  to  her 
appearance.  But  to-day  she  stood  a  full  five 
minutes  before  the  glass,  patting,  smoothing, 
arranging — settling  every  fold  of  her  careless  gar- 
ments with  minutest  care.  Then  she  turned  to 
him. 

"  Good-bye,  Quentin." 

Her  head  was  held  high — one  would  scarcely 
know  her  in  her  sleekness  and  order. 

"  Janey — you  forgive  me." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  Janey — for  God's  sake ! — oh,  please  forgive 
me! — because  I've  suffered  so  much,  because  I've 
wanted  you  so,  because  I've  struggled  to  find 
redemption.  ..." 

His  eyes  burned,  full  of  entreaty.  But  at  first 
she  could  not  answer  him.  She  moved  slowly 


ONLY  A  BOY  227 

towards  the  door,  but  stopped  on  the  threshold, 
and  looked  back  at  him,  her  heart  hot  and  sick 
in  her  breast  with  pity.  She  had  never  realised 
Quentin's  youth  so  absolutely  and  heartrendingly 
as  to-day. 

"  I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  "  but  not  for  any  of 
those  reasons.  I  forgive  you  because  you  are — 
oh,  God! — only  a  boy." 


CHAPTER  IV 

FLAMES 

JANET  walked  quickly  through  the  darkening 
country.  A  power  from  behind  seemed  to  be 
driving  her  on — a  hot,  smoky  power  of  uttermost 
shame.  It  was  symbolised  by  the  thunder-vapour 
that  curled  in  the  east,  a  black,  swagging  cloud 
that  lumbered  towards  the  sunset  over  reaches  of 
heat-washed  sky. 

She  hardly  realised  how  she  had  won  through 
that  interview  at  Redpale  Farm.  The  details  were 
dim  and  jumbled  in  her  memory,  like  the  details 
of  what  has  taken  place  just  before  an  accident  or 
during  an  illness.  She  hoped  she  had  not  been 
undignified,  but  really  did  not  care  very  much 
about  it.  The  tension  which  had  characterised 
both  her  calmness  and  her  hysteria  was  gone — her 
emotions  seemed  to  flop.  Unlike  so  many  women, 
pride  gave  her  no  support  in  her  dreadful  hour. 

But  her  feelings  were  merely  relaxed,  not  sub- 
dued, and  her  loose,  run-down  nerves  quivered  as 
agonisedly  as  during  their  stretch  and  strain. 
The  realisation  of  all  she  had  lost  swept  over  her 
heart,  engulfing  it.  The  very  fields  through  which 
she  walked  were  part  of  this  realisation — it  was 
here,  or  it  was  there,  that  she  had  stood  with 
Quentin  on  such  and  such  a  day,  or  had  watched 
him  coming  towards  her  out  of  the  mist-blurred 
distance,  or  seen  him  go  from  her,  stopping  to 
228 


FLAMES  229 

raise  his  arm  in  farewell,  just  there,  where  the 
foxgloves  lifted  purple  poles  in  the  ditches  of 
Stars  whorne.  She  could  see  the  thickets  of 
Furnace  Wood,  hazed  over  with  heat — they  were 
haunted  now,  she  would  never  go  near  Furnace 
Wood  again.  Two  ghosts  wandered  up  and  down 
its  heat-baked  paths,  rustled  in  the  hazels,  and 
stood  where  the  tufted  hedge  shut  off  Furnace  Field 
— loving  and  dumb.  They  were  not  the  ghosts  of 
dead  bodies,  but  of  dead  selves — of  two  who  walked 
apart  in  distant  ways,  who  would  never  again  meet 
each  other  save  in  memory  and  in  sleep. 

A  metallic  hardness  had  dropped  upon  the  day. 
The  arch  of  the  sky  was  .steel,  sunless,  yet  bright 
with  a  cold  sheen;  at  the  rim  it  dipped  to  copper, 
hot  and  sullen,  save  where  in  the  west  two  brazen 
bars  sent  out  harsh  lights  to  rest  on  the  fields  and 
make  them  too  like  brass. 

Janet  at  last  reached  Sparrow  Hall,  and  as  she 
did  so,  for  the  first  time  felt  physical  fatigue.  It 
came  upon  her  in  a  spasm — she  was  just  able  to 
stagger  into  the  kitchen,  and  sink  down  in  her 
accustomed  chair,  every  muscle  aching  and  ex- 
hausted, her  head  splitting  with  pain,  and  her 
body  shuddering  with  a  sudden  and  unaccountable 
sickness. 

For  some  time  she  did  not  move,  she  just  fought 
with  the  sheer  physical  discomfort  of  it  all.  Her 
head  lay  on  the  table,  her  arms  were  spread  over 
the  wood,  and  the  collapsed  line  of  her  shoulders 
was  of  utter  powerlessness  and  pain.  Then  two 
tears  rolled  slowly  from  her  eyes — they  were  part 
of  her  physical  plight,  and  for  it  alone  she  wept. 


230  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

For  the  sorrow  of  her  soul  it  seemed  as  if  she  could 
only  weep  dry  salt. 

Oh,  merciful  God! — Quentin  looked  upon  her 
love  as  his  ruin,  and  turned  from  her  in  panic  to 
another  woman.  In  this  other  love  he  would  find 
the  peace  and  happiness  and  goodness  that  Janey 
had  ached  and  striven  for  years  to  give  him;  he 
would  learn  to  forget  the  wicked  Janey  Furlonger, 
whose  love  had  all  but  been  his  perdition,  who 
had  brought  him  to  sin  and  torture  and  despair 
— and  now  would  lie  in  the  background  of  his 
heart,  as  an  evil  thing  we  cover  up  and  pray  to 
forget.  This  young,  innocent  girl  would  save  him 
from  his  memories  of  the  woman  who  had  given 
more  for  his  sake  than  Tony  Strife  would  ever 
dream  of  giving.  He  did  not  realise  her  sacrifice 
— she  had  given  up  for  his  sake  the  innocence  and 
purity  that  were  more  to  her  simple  soul  than  life, 
and  now  he  turned  from  her  because  she  had  them 
not. 

Then  for  the  first  time  a  convulsion  of  wrath 
seized  Janey.  For  the  first  time  she  saw  the  cruelty 
and  outrage  of  it  all.  Her  anger  blazed  up — 
against  Quentin,  against  the  world,  against  her- 
self. His  last  letter  lay  on  the  tale.  She  seized 
it,  and  thrust  it  into  the  fire.  Then  she  noticed 
the  box  that  held  his  other  letters.  She  seized  that 
too,  and  crammed  it  into  the  grate.  Long  tongues 
of  flame  shot  out,  and  suddenly  one  of  them  caught 
her  dress — she  screamed,  flames  and  smoke  seemed 
to  wrap  her  round,  and  in  madness  she  rushed  to 
the  door.  A  man  was  in  the  passage.  He 


FLAMES  231 

grasped  her,  and  held  her  to  him,  beating  out  the 
flames. 

"  Quentin !  "  she  shrieked,  "  Quentin !  Quentin !  " 

"Janey — darling  sister!  There!  it's  all  over 
now.  The  fire's  out.  Are  you  much  hurt  ?  " 

"Quentin!     Quentin!" 

Leonard  picked  her  up  bodily,  and  carried  her 
into  the  kitchen,  sitting  down  by  the  fire  with  her 
on  his  knee.  He  began  to  examine  her.  Her 
skirt  was  nothing  but  charred  rags,  her  face  and 
hands  were  black  with  grime,  and  there  was  a 
horrible  smell  of  singed  hair,  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  be  actually  burnt.  She  was  trembling  from 
head  to  feet,  her  face  hidden  against  his  breast. 

"  I  don't  think  you're  really  hurt,  dear.  What 
a  lucky  chance  I  happened  to  be  there!  If  I'd 
done  as  I  said  and  gone  to  Cherrygarden,  you 
might  have  been  burnt  to  death.  How  did  you  do 
it,  Janey?" 

"  I  was  burning  Quentin's  letters.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Quentin !  Quentin !  " 

The  last  dregs  of  Janey's  self-control  were  gone. 
Anxiety,  shock,  grief,  humiliation,  love,  despair 
and  sickening,  physical  fright,  all  crowded  into  a 
few  short  hours,  had  almost  deprived  her  of  her 
reason. 

"  Quentin !  Quentin !  "  she  cried,  clinging  to 
Leonard. 

She  was  so  tall  that  he  had  difficulty  in  holding 
her  on  his  knee  while  she  struggled. 

"  Janey,  I  can't  understand,  dearest.  Who's 
Quentin? — not  Quentin  Lowe?  " 


232  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Yes  —  Quentin  Lowe.  Lenny,  Lenny  —  he 
doesn't  love  me  any  more." 

Leonard  kissed  her  smoke-grimed  face  repeat- 
edly. He  was  utterly  bewildered. 

"  He  doesn't  love  me  any  more,"  she  continued, 
gasping.  "  He  loves  Tony  Strife — he's  going  to 
marry  her.  Lenny,  he's  a  devil." 

"  My  darling,  can't  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  Did 
you  ever  love  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  loved  him !  I  loved  him !  I  gave  up 
all  I  had  to  him.  Lenny,  he  thinks  my  love  was 
his  ruin  ...  he  wants  to  be  happy  and  good,  and 
he  thinks  he  can't  be  either  if  he  loves  me  ... 
he  says — 

'And  throughout  all  eternity 
I  forgive  you,  you  forgive  me.' " 

"  My  poor  old  Janey,  I'm  going  to  carry  you 
upstairs." 

"  I  can  walk,"  and  she  tried  to  stand,  but  he  had 
only  just  time  to  catch  her. 

"  I'm  going  to  carry  you.  Poor,  poor  Janey — 
see  what  a  big  baby  you  are." 

He  carried  her  up  the  rickety  stairs,  into  her 
room,  laying  her  on  the  bed. 

"  Would  you  like  to  undress  ?  " 

"  No — no — Lenny,  don't  leave  me." 

He  was  in  despair. 

"Janey,  dearest,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what's 
happened.  I  can't  comfort  you  properly  when  I 
don't  know.  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  you 
love  Quentin  Lowe?  " 


FLAMES  233 

"  I  love  him  .  .  .  oh,  I  love  him  ...  but  he's 
a  devil." 

"  Did  he  know  ? — did  he  love  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  loved  me  .  .  .  and  he  made  me  give 
up  everything  for  his  sake  .  .  .  and  now  he's 
going  to  marry  another  woman  .  .  .  oh,  Lenny, 
Lenny,  I  want  Nigel !  " 

"  Janey — don't — I  simply  can't  bear  this.  Don't 
give  way  so — he  isn't  worth  it." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  you'd  say  that." 

"  I  won't  say  it  if  you  don't  like  it.  But  don't 
be  in  despair — you'll  soon  feel  better — you'll  get 
over  it.  And  meantime  there's:  Nigel  and 
me.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  want  Nigel!" 

"  I'll  wire  to  him  to  come  down*  for  the  week- 
end, after  his  concert." 

"  Lenny  .  .  .  you'll  never  forsake  me?  " 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect — I  daren't " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  The  disgrace  .  .  ." 

He  stared  at  her  in  bewilderment. 

"  Oh,  Lenny  ...  I  don't  think  you  under- 
stand." 

She  had  made  him  understand  at  last — and  in 
the  process  had  strangely  enough  recovered  some- 
thing of  her  self-control.  At  first  she  had  thought 
his  brain  could  never  receive  this  ghastly  new 
impression;  but  gradually  she  had  seen  the  colour 
fade  from  his  lips,  while  a  terrible  sternness  crept 
into  his  eyes;  she  had  seen  his  hand  go  up  to  his 


234  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

forehead  with  the  swift  yet  uncertain  movement  of 
one  who  has  been  smitten. 

"My  God!" 

Leonard  stepped  back  from  the  bed. 

She  lay  gazing  at  him  like  a  drowning  woman. 
She  saw  the  stern  lines  of  his  mouth — had  girls 
any  right  to  expect  their  brothers  to  forgive  them 
such  things?  Yet  if  Lenny  turned  from  her  .  .  . 
i  f  she  lost  not  only  Quentin  but  the  boys  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  little 
room,  with  its  faded  reds  and  casement  open  to 
the  fields. 

Then  suddenly  Leonard  sprang  forward, 
stooped,  and  caught  Janey  in  his  arms,  turning  her 
face  to  his  breast. 

They  clung  together  in  silence,  both  trembling. 
The  first  faint  wind  of  the  evening  crept  in  and 
ruffled  their  hair. 

"  You  won't  love  me  so  much  now." 

"  I  will  love  you  more — but,  by  God !  I'll  kill 
that  man ! " 

"No— no!— Len,  no!" 

"  Hush,  dear,  don't  get  excited  again." 

"  But  you  must  promise  .  .  .  he — he's  only  a 
boy." 

"  Boy  be  damned !  He's  a  skunk — he's  a  loathly 
little  reptile,  that's  all.  He  isn't  worthy  to  sweep 
out  your  cinders,  and  he — oh,  God,  Janey!  I'd 
give  my  life  to-morrow  for  the  privilege  of  wring- 
ing his  neck  to-night." 

"  Len,  promise  me  you  won't  hurt  him — I — I 
shall  die  if  you  do." 


FLAMES  235 

"  Well,  I'll  promise  to  leave  him  alone  for  the 
present,  because  I've  got  you  to  look  after.  I 
want  you  to  go  to  sleep,  dear.  Do  you  think  you 
could  sleep?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  couldn't." 

"  You  could  if  I  mixed  you  some  nice  hot  brandy 
and  water.  Let  me  go  downstairs  and  get  some." 

"  Oh,  Lenny — I'm  frightened  of  being  alone." 

"  But  it  won't  take  me  a  minute — the  kettle's 
on  the  fire." 

The  combined  longing  for  a  stimulant  and  for 
oblivion  was  too  intense  for  Janey  to  resist. 

"  You're  sure  you  won't  be  long?  " 

"  Yes — I  promise — just  down  and  up  again." 

"  Then  thank  you,  Len." 

He  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  and  mixed  a  pretty 
stiff  grog — for  himself.  Janey  had  been  too  over- 
wrought to  notice  that  her  brother  was  trembling 
and  flushed,  and  that  there  was  a  strange,  drawn 
look  about  his  face.  He  had  turned  back  half-way 
to  Cherrygarden  because  he  felt  "  queer,"  and  to 
this  no  doubt  she  owed  her  life.  In  the  horror 
and  confusion  of  the  last  half -hour  he  had  for- 
gotten his  own  illness,  but  now  it  was  growing  upon 
him,  and  he  must  fight  it  for  her  sake.  He  drank 
a  tumblerful  of  brandy  and  water,  then  mixed  some 
for  Janey,  and  went  upstairs. 

He  helped  her  take  off  her  charred  skirt  and 
bodice,  and  wrapped  her  in  a  dressing-gown.  He 
bathed  her  smoky  face  and  hands,  then  he  pulled 
a  rug  over  her,  and  gave  her  the  brandy.  It  was 
a  strong  dose  for  a  woman,  and  in  spite  of  all  she 
had  said  she  was  soon  asleep. 


236  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  closed  his  eyes. 
The  soft  air  fanned  him,  and  the  scents  of  the 
little  garden  steamed  up  and  scattered  themselves 
in  the  room. 

Janey  lay  with  her  head  sunk  deep  in  the  pillow, 
her  face  half-buried  in  it,  and  her  breathing  came 
heavily,  almost  in  sobs.  Her  knees  were  drawn 
up,  and  her  arms  crossed  on  her  breast,  the  hands 
twisted  together — there  was  something  pathetic  and 
childish  in  the  huddled  attitude. 

Leonard  thought  to  himself — 

"  It's  nearly  time  for  Nigel's  concert — I  wonder 
if  he's  thinking  of  Janey  and  me," 


CHAPTER  V 

COWSANISH 

LEONARD  dozed  a  little,  but  he  did  not  sleep.  A 
leaden  weariness  was  in  his  limbs,  but  his  heart 
and  brain  were  horribly  active,  forbidding  rest. 
His  heart  was  full  of  rage,  and  his  brain  was  full 
of  images — he  could  doze  only  till  these  last 
crystallised  in  dreams,  when  their  vividness  woke 
him  up  at  once.  He  woke  each  time  with  a  start 
and  a  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness  and  alarm.  He 
feared  he  was  going  to  be  ill — just  when  Janey 
needed  him  so  badly.  He  must  bear  up  till  to- 
morrow; by  then  she  would  be  better,  to-night 
she  was  helpless  without  him.  He  looked  at  the 
cramped  figure  on  the  bed,  and  his  throat  tightened 
with  sorrow,  shame  and  rage. 

She  should  be  avenged — he  swore  it.  Lowe 
should  be  made  to  realise  that  it  was  not  with 
impunity  that  one  dragged  women  like  Janey  into 
the  mud  and  then  climbed  out  over  their  shoulders. 
He  should  be  made  to  grovel  to  her  and  implore 
her  forgiveness.  Len  had  not  quite  settled  his 
course  of  action,  but  he  had  fixed  the  results. 
Lowe  was  a  worm,  a  miserable,  loathly,  little, 
wriggling  worm,  and  he  had  slimed  a  lily — he 
should  squirm  under  a  decent  man's  boot.  .  .  . 

The  room  darkened.  The  curtains,  fluttering  in 
the  dusk-wind,  were  like  ghosts.  The  line  of 
woods  on  the  horizon  became  dim,  and  an  owl 

237 


238  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

called  from  them  suddenly.  Then  a  procession 
of  clouds  began  to  flit  solemnly  across  the  window 
— driven  from  the  south-west.  They  were  brown 
against  the  bottomless  grey,  and  there  was  a  kind 
of  majestic  rhythm  in  their  march  before  the  wind. 

Len  rose  with  a  shudder — somehow  he  could 
not  sit  still.  He  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  shut 
in  the  fowls  for  the  night  or  stalled  the  cows.  He 
would  have  to  leave  Janey  for  a  little  and  attend 
to  the  farm.  He  stepped  back  and  looked  at  her. 
Her  bed  was  in  darkness,  and  all  he  could  see  was 
a  long,  black  mass  on  the  paleness  of  the  bed- 
clothes. She  was  sleeping  heavily,  with  quick, 
stertorous  breathing,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  she 
would  wake  for  some  time — he  had  certainly  better 
go  now,  while  she  slept  so  well. 

He  crept  quietly  from  the  room  and  down  the 
dark  stairs.  Outside  the  breeze  puffed  healingly 
upon  him,  cooling  him  with  a  sweet  dampness  as 
he  climbed  into  the  stream-field  where  the  cows 
were  pastured.  The  mists  were  too  high  and 
clammy  for  them  to  be  left  out  at  night,  and  the 
man  had  gone  home  after  milking  them.  He 
called  to  them  softly,  and  great  shadows  began  to 
move  out  of  the  fogs  towards  him.  The  peace  of 
the  twilight  and  of  his  work  with  the  calm,  milk- 
smelling  beasts,  was  so  great  that,  in  spite  of  rage 
and  suffering,  a  kind  of  dreamy  comfort  came  to 
Len — a  quiet  he  felt  only  in  the  fields.  He  began 
to  whistle  as  he  drove  the  cows  home  before  him. 
Then  suddenly  the  whistling  made  him  remember 
Nigel's  concert. 


COWSANISH  239 

He  had  meant  to  send  off  a  second  telegram, 
which  Nigel  would  receive  just  before  he  went  on 
the  platform  at  the  Bechstein.  The  last  shatter- 
ing hour  had  made  him  forget  his  plan,  and  he 
realised  that  if  his  brother  was  to  have  his  message 
of  good-cheer  it  must  be  sent  at  once.  But  how? 
There  was  still  time,  but  he  could  not  leave  the 
house,  even  on  such  an  errand — and  yet  his  brother 
must  be  "  bucked  up  "  at  all  costs.  To-morrow  he 
would  send  another  wire,  asking  him  to  come  down 
for  the  week-end,  but  he  thought  it  as  well  not  to 
risk  alarming  him  to-night.  Len  pondered  a 
minute,  then  suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
could  give  his  telegram  to  the  postman,  who  was 
due  to  pass  Sparrow  Hall  on  his  way  back  from 
his  round.  By  a  lucky  chance  there  was  a  tele- 
graph-form in  the  house;  Len  filled  it  in,  and  then 
ran  out  with  it  to  the  lane. 

He  looked  up  at  Janey's  window — all  was  quiet, 
only  the  white  curtains  fluttered  out  on  the  wind; 
anyhow  he  would  hear  if  she  woke  and  called  him. 
The  lane  was  very  dark — the  sky  was  still  faintly 
light  above  it,  but  night  had  fallen  between  the 
hedges.  He  heard  footsteps,  and  saw  a  figure 
coming  down  Wilderwick  hill. 

"  Hullo,  Wink  worth !  "  he  cried,  "  I  want  you  to 
do  something  for  me." 

He  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  lane,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  figure  began  to  climb  the  stile 
into  Wilderwick  meadows. 

"  Hi !  "  shouted  Len — he  suddenly  realised  that 
on  fine  dry  nights  the  postman  would  take  the  field- 
path  to  Dormans. 


240  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

*  Hi !  "  he  shouted,  running  after  him.  "  Wink- 
worth  ! — I've  a " 

The  words  died  on  his  tongue.  He  had  reached 
the  stile,  and  saw  standing  on  the  further  side  of 
it,  on  the  high  ground  which  the  darkness  had  not 
reached — with  the  last  of  the  western  light  upon 
his  face — Quentin  Lowe. 

For  a  moment  both  men  stared  at  each  other, 
then  Lowe  moved  away.  Len  stood  stock  still,  a 
queer  grimace  on  his  features. 

"  Were  you  calling  me,  sir?  " 

A  voice  behind  him  made  him  start.  The  post- 
man had  come  out  of  the  darkness  and  stood  at 
his  elbow. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  you  shout  '  Wink  worth ' 
when  I  was  far  up  the  hill.  Anything  you  want, 
Mus'  Furlonger  ?  " 

"  Yes — yes — would  you  take  this  telegram  to 
Dormans,  and  see  it  sent  off?  Here's  a  bob.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  sounded  vague,  somehow,  as  if  it  were 
a  mechanical  process  unconnected  with  his  real 
self.  He  stood  watching  the  old  postman  as  he 
climbed  the  stile  and  took  the  turning  for  Dor- 
mans,  where  the  track  divided.  A  minute  later  a 
figure  became  silhouetted  against  the  sky  on  his 
right;  the  path  to  Cowden  and  the  valley  farms 
dipped  abruptly  a  few  yards  beyond  the  stile,  then 
climbed  to  the  high  grounds  near  Goatsluck  Wood. 
Quentin  Lowe  was  clearly  visible  as  he  hurried 
away  towards  Kent — almost  as  if  he  feared 
pursuit. 

Leonard  stared  after  him,  his  eyes  bright  with 
hate  and  fever.  A  kind  of  delirium  was  in  his 


COWSANISH  241 

brain  as  he  watched  that  thick-set,  slouching 
figure,  caricatured  into  a  dwarf  by  his  fury  and 
the  cheverel  light.  Then  suddenly  he  bounded 
forward. 

He  forgot  all  about  the  illness  that  was  creeping 
over  him,  and  Janey  alone  in  the  dark  house.  Or 
rather,  he  told  himself  that  he  would  be  up  with 
Quentin  in  a  minute,  and  would  have  settled  him 
in  a  couple  more.  He  would  drag  him  back  to 
Sparrow  Hall  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  Janey, 
poor,  outraged  Janey,  should  be  his  judge,  and 
taste  triumph  even  in  her  despair. 

He  climbed  the  stile  and  ran  up  the  path,  plung- 
ing recklessly  through  the  tall,  ghostly  butter- 
cups, glowing  faintly  in  the  twilight.  He  had 
soon  lost  the  path,  a  mere  borstall,  and  was 
trampling  the  hay-grass,  but  he  did  not  slack. 

Quentin  had  for  the  moment  disappeared.  The 
trees  of  Goatsluck  Wood  waved  against  the  sky: 
Len  was  conscious  of  a  kind  of  illusion  as  he 
approached  them — it  seemed  as  if  they  were  very 
far  away,  then  suddenly  he  found  himself  on  the 
tangled  rim  of  the  wood,  the  boughs  shuddering 
and  rustling  over  him,  as  he  groped  his  way  into 
the  darkness. 

He  had  to  run  along  the  hedge  till  he  found  the 
stile,  and  he  realised  that  Lowe  now  had  a  good 
start.  But  he  would  not  stop,  nor  defer  his  ven- 
geance to  another,  more  auspicious,  day.  Janey 
would  probably  not  wake  till  the  next  morning — 
and  meantime  his  blood  was  up.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  what  he  should  do  to  Quentin  when  he  over- 
took him — he  was  not  worth  killing,  that  would 
16 


242  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

only  mean  more  sorrow  for  Janey,  but  he  had  ideas 
of  pounding  him  more  or  less  to  a  jelly  and  then 
dragging  him  back  to  Sparrow  Hall  and  making 
him  kiss  the  ground  at  Janey's  feet,  and  grovel 
and  slobber  for  her  forgiveness,  with  other  humilia- 
tions which  he  did  not  think  for  a  minute  his  sister 
would  not  enjoy. 

Meantime  he  floundered  stupidly  among  the 
trees.  The  path  was  not  often  used,  and  the 
undergrowth  had  become  tangled  across  it — 
branches  of  ash  and  hazel  whipped  his  cheeks,  and 
brambles  caught  his  feet  and  sent  him  stumbling. 
Once  he  fell  full  length,  with  the  soft  suck  of  mud 
under  his  body,  and  once  he  had  to  stop  and  fight 
for  his  breath  which  had  been  knocked  out  of  him 
by  the  low  bough  of  an  oak.  It  was  very  dark 
in  Goatsluck  Wood — like  a  dark  dream.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  shuddering  patches  of  sky,  and 
they  intensified  the  strange  dream  spell,  for  he 
seemed  to  be  moving  through  them,  tossed  by  the 
wind  and  scorched  by  whirling  stars. 

Then  suddenly  a  meadow  swam  towards  him — 
another  meadow  full  of  buttercups,  all  gleaming 
faintly  in  the  marriage  of  twilight  and  moonlight 
that  revelled  over  the  fields.  A  soft  wind  baffed 
him,  and  cooled  his  lips  with  little  drops  of  rain. 
He  pounded  on  through  the  buttercups,  thought 
and  self-consciousness  both  almost  swallowed  up  in 
the  abnormal  consciousness  of  environment  that 
accompanies  certain  states  of  fever.  He  saw  the 
moon  hanging  low  and  yellow  in  the  east,  he  saw 
long,  tangled  hedges,  and  tufts  of  wood — and  all 
round  him,  in  meadow  after  meadow,  that  ceaseless 


COWSANISH  243 

shimmer  of  buttercups,  as  the  wind  puffed  through 
them  and  bowed  them  to  the  moon. 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  Quentin  Lowe.  His  pace 
had  slackened,  for  he  had  not  seen  Furlonger  for 
some  minutes,  but  the  next  moment  he  looked  over 
his  shoulder  and  hurried  on  again. 

"  Stop !  "  cried  Leonard. 

The  figure  hunched  itself  against  the  wind  and 
plunged  on. 

"  Stop ! "  gasped  Len,  and  calling  up  all  his 
strength  broke  into  a  run. 

Quentin  looked  back,  and  saw  that  he  was  run- 
ning. He  himself  was  too  proud  to  run,  but  he 
doubled  against  the  hedge,  and  changing  his  direc- 
tion, walked  towards  Langerish,  so  that  Len  nearly 
overran  him. 

But  just  in  time  he  saw  the  short,  heavy  figure 
groping  along  the  rim  of  the  buttercups,  and  the 
chase  took  a  southward  direction. 

Len  had  not  the  breath  to  run  far — he  wondered 
vaguely  what  had  winded  him.  He  came  panting 
after  Quentin,  always  the  same  distance  behind; 
he  no  longer  cried  "  Stop !  " — just  padded  gasping 
after  him. 

They  skirted  the  meadow  known  as  Watch  Oak, 
then  followed  the  grass  lane  to  Golden  Pot  and 
the  outhouses  of  Anstiel.  Quentin  was  trying  to 
work  his  way  back  towards  Kent  and  the  valley 
of  the  hammer  ponds,  but  Leonard  drove  him 
obstinately  southwards.  He  was  beginning  to 
gain  on  him  a  little.  Quentin  could  hear  his 
footsteps,  and  he  knew  why  he  was  following 
him. 


244  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

A  sick  dread  was  creeping  up  Lowe's  back — he 
looked  round  at  the  shuddering  woods  and  that 
strange  sky  of  storm  and  stars,  and  he  trembled 
with  the  presentiment  that  he  saw  them  all  for  the 
last  time.  Furlonger  was  a  great,  big,  burly  brute 
— and  Furlonger  would  kill  him.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  he  deserved  to  die — the  country  through  which 
he  plunged  in  this  horrible  death-chase  had  a 
reproach  in  each  spinney,  a  regret  in  each  field. 
And  yet  his  heart  was  stiff  with  defiance — what 
right  had  the  gods  to  dangle  salvation  before  a 
man's  eyes,  and  then  slay  him  when  he  grasped  it? 
A  sob  rose  in  his  throat.  The  gates  of  Paradise 
had  rolled  back  for  him  at  last — and  must  he  die 
just  inside  them? 

His  defiance  grew.  He  would  not  be  robbed  of 
his  salvation.  To  grasp  it  he  had  let  go  more  than 
he  dared  think.  The  gods  should  not  mock  him 
with  their  gifts — or  rather,  merchandise.  They 
should  not  take  his  awful  price,  and  then  deny  the 
goods.  Life  should  not  suddenly  turn  and  smile 
on  him,  and  then  hurry  away.  He  called  after 
departing  Life — "  I  will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou 
bless  me.  .  .  ." 

He  bent  his  head  and  began  to  run. 

Then  suddenly  his  mood  changed.  The  power 
that  had  steadied  his  voice  and  straightened  his 
back  during  his  terrible  interview  with  Janey,  had 
not  forsaken  him  now.  He  loved  Tony  Strife,  and 
he  was  too  proud  in  her  love  to  play  the  coward. 
He  would  not  run  away  from  fate.  It  should  not 
be  said  of  Tony's  lover  that  he  had  died  running 


COWSANISH  245 

away.  He  stopped  abruptly,  swung  round  and 
faced  Furlonger. 

Leonard  was  so  surprised  at  this  change  of 
tactics  that  for  a  moment  he  did  not  speak.  He 
stood  staring  at  Lowe,  his  hands  clenched,  his 
muscles  taut,  his  veins  boiling  and  throbbing. 
The  two  men  faced  each  other  in  the  corner  of  a 
high  field  known  as  Cowsanish.  On  one  side  a 
hedgerow  was  whispering  with  winds,  on  the  other 
the  ground  sloped  downwards  to  a  ruined  out- 
house— then  it  dipped  suddenly,  and  the  distance 
was  full  of  mists,  through  which  could  be  seen 
blotches  of  woods  and  farmhouse  lights.  The  sky 
was  still  wind-swept  and  scattered  with  stars. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asked  Lowe  at  last. 

Leonard  mumbled  a  little  before  he  spoke.  "  To 
wring  your  neck." 

"Why?" 

"  You  know  why." 

Furlonger's  mouth  was  working  with  passion, 
and  his  eyes  were  deliriously  bright.  He  really 
meant  to  wring  Lowe's  neck.  He  had  forgotten 
his  earlier  schemes  of  vengeance — nothing  would 
suffice  him  now  but  the  extreme,  the  uttermost. 

Lowe  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest,  and  called 
up  all  his  memories  of  Tony. 

"  You  want  to  kill  me,"  he  said  in  a  struggling 
voice,  "  because  of  what  I've  done  to  Janey — but 
I  tell  you  it's  been  a  blessing  to  her  as  well  as 
to  me.  We  were  both  in  the  mud  together,  and 
now  I've  got  out  it'll  be  easier  for  her  to  do  so." 

"  You've  blighted  her  with  your  damned  love!  " 
cried  Leonard  incoherently,  "  she's  half  dead,  she's 


246  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

in  the  mud,  she's  in  hell.  When  you  got  out,  as 
you  call  it,  you  kicked  her  deeper  in." 

"  But  there's  no  good  killing  me  for  it." 

"Why?" 

Len  asked  the  question  almost  lamely.  He  felt 
giddy  and  inert,  and  Ouentin's  words  seemed  to 
be  trickling  past  him  somehow — it  was  a  strange 
feeling  he  could  not  quite  realise. 

"  Why  ? — because  you'll  probably  be  hanged  for 
it,  and  that  won't  do  your  sister  any  good.  Be- 
sides " — and  here  his  voice  quickened  suddenly 
into  passion — "  you've  no  right  to  kill  me  for 
grasping  my  only  chance  of  salvation." 

"  Damn  your  salvation ! — I'm  not  going  to  kill 
you  for  getting  out  of  the  ditch,  but  for  dragging 
her  into  it — Janey,  my  sister,  whose  shoes  you 
aren't  worthy  to  clean." 

Lowe  quailed  for  a  moment.  Furlonger's  eyes 
were  blazing,  and  he  crouched  back  as  if  for  a 
spring. 

"  There's  no  good  gassing  about  it,"  '  he  said 
thickly,  "if  I  let  you  talk,  you'll  talk  me  stupid. 
I'm  going  to  wring  your  neck  because  you  dragged 
my  Janey  into  your  own  beastly  hell,  and  then 
when  you  saw  the  chance,  climbed  out  over  her 
shoulders,  and  left  her  to  rot  there.  She's  ill,  I 
tell  you — she's  half  dead — and  I'm  going  to  kill 
you  for  it." 

Quentin  flung  a  last  imploring  look  at  the  silent 
fields  with  their  waving,  whispering  grass.  The 
clouds  were  scattering  now,  and  the  sky  blazed 
with  stars.  The  night  was  full  of  the  scent  of  hay. 
...  In  a  moment  they  would  be  lost  in  a  black, 


COWSANISH  247 

choking  whirl,  that  sky,  those  stars — that  sweet 
smell  of  hay.  He  sniffed  at  it.  He  thought  of 
the  huge  mown  meadow  by  Shovelstrode,  where 
only  yesterday  he  and  Tony  had  lounged  and 
played.  He  heard  the  voices  of  the  workers,  as 
they  turned  the  great  swathes,  and  shook  them 
on  their  forks,  filling  the  air  with  fragrance;  he 
saw  Tony  in  a  muslin  frock,  with  the  white  rose 
he  had  given  her  in  her  breast.  He  saw  the  sun 
on  the  coils  of  her  mouse-coloured  hair — heard  her 
say  some  little,  trivial,  slangy  thing  that  had  some- 
how made  him  kiss  her.  He  remembered  that 
kiss,  so  sweet,  so  cool,  so  calm — and,  as  he  drew 
back  his  head,  the  look  of  her  innocent  eyes.  .  .  . 

But  once  more  the  thought  of  Tony  put  courage 
into  him.  If  he  must  die  inside  the  gates  of 
Paradise,  he  would  die  worthily  of  the  woman  who 
had  opened  them  to  him.  For  her  sake  he  would 
die  game — it  was  the  only  thing  he  had  left  to  do 
for  her  now.  He  would  die  with  a  proud  face 
and  a  high  courage — and  his  last  conscious 
thought  should  be  of  Tony,  who,  if  only  for  a  few 
short  days,  had  allowed  him  to  see  what  love  can 
be  when  it  comes  in  white. 

He  braced  himself  up,  flung  back  his  shoulders, 
and  waited  for  the  attack. 

It  came. 

Furlonger  sprang  forward  and  seized  Quentin  by 
the  throat.  For  a  moment  they  swayed  together, 
Lowe  snatching  at  the  other's  hands  and  strug- 
gling with  the  frenzy  of  despair.  His  eyes  bulged, 
his  lips  blackened,  and  still  he  fought.  Then  the 


248  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

darkness   began  to   rush  over  him — first   in  little 
clouds,  then  in  long,  black  sweeps. 
"  Janey !  .  .  .  Janey !  "  he  cried. 

He  opened  his  eyes  at  last.  He  was  lying  under 
the  hedge,  his  cheek  scratched,  his  hands  twisted 
in  the  grass.  He  stirred  feebly,  then  sat  up,  still 
crouching  back  against  the  hazel.  Furlonger  lay 
prone  among  the  buttercups,  his  chin  turned  up 
sharply,  the  moonlight  blazing  on  his  face.  Then 
Lowe  remembered  how  things  had  happened — how 
the  sickening  grip  on  his  throat  had  suddenly 
relaxed,  and  he  had  gone  crashing  backwards  into 
the  brambles,  while  something  fell  with  a  heavy 
thud  at  his  feet. 

He  wondered  if  Furlonger  was  dead.  He  went 
and  looked  into  his  face.  The  features  were 
strangely  drawn,  and  there  was  a  look  of  desperate 
anxiety  in  their  contraction.  Then  suddenly  the 
eyes  opened  and  looked  up  into  Lowe's,  full  of 
terror  and  fever. 

"What's  happened?  Who's  there?  Oh,  my 
God!" 

Remembrance  had  come  with  a  spasm  of  that 
ghastly  face.  Leonard  sat  up  in  the  grass,  and 
held  his  hands  to  his  head. 

"  I'm  ill,  I  think,"  he  muttered. 

He  must  have  fainted — fainted  through  the  stress 
and  horror  of  it  all,  just  when  his  enemy's  breath 
had  nearly  sobbed  away  under  his  hands. 

"  You'd  better  go  home,"  said  Quentin. 

Leonard  did  not  speak.     He  still  sat  there  in  a 


COWSANISH  249 

piteous  huddle — and  then  suddenly  tremor  after 
tremor  began  to  go  through  him.  He  shuddered 
from  head  to  foot,  his  teeth  chattered,  and  his 
limbs  shook  so  that  he  could  not  rise. 

"  I  want  some  water — I  want  something  to 
drink,"  he  panted. 

Quentin  put  his  hands  under  his  shoulders  to 
help  him  get  up.  He  felt  quite  generously  towards 
him  now.  He  had  been  snatched  by  a  timely 
accident  from  death,  and  could  afford  to  pity  this 
poor  fellow  who  had  tried  to  kill  him,  but  failed. 

"  Let  me  help  you  home." 

"No— by  God!" 

"  Let  me— you're  ill." 

"  Yes,  I  was  ill  when  I  started  after  you — or  you 
wouldn't  be  alive  and  grinning  at  me  now.  I  was 
a  fool — I  should  have  waited.  But  look  out  for 
me  another  day,  you  skunk !  " 

The  ghastly  rigor  choked  his  last  words.  The 
look  of  terror  and  anxiety  deepened  on  his  face. 
Then  at  last  he  managed  to  stumble  up. 

"  I — I'm  going  home,"  he  stuttered,  and  felt  sick 
as  he  realised  he  would  have  to  pass  again  through 
Goatsluck  Wood. 

"  And  you  won't  let  me  go  with  you  ?  " 

"  No — I  shan't  let  myself  owe  you  anything,  for 
I  mean  to  kill  you  some  day." 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  threaten  me — I  might  be 
obliged  to  take  proceedings  against  you." 

"  A  pretty  mess  you'd  be  in  if  you  did.  I  sup- 
pose you  don't  want  your  new  girl  to  hear  about 
Janey?" 


250  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Quentin  flushed. 

"  If  I  wasn't  obliged  to  shield  my  sister,"  con- 
tinued Len,  "  I'd  tell  that  girl  myself.  But  you 
know  my  tongue's  tied — besides,  I'd  rather  kill 
you." 

'  The  secret  might  come  out  that  way  too.  No, 
Furlonger,  if  you  are  wise  you'll  let  me  alone." 

He  drew  back  a  little  as  he  spoke — the  friendly 
reaction  was  passing.  He  had  always  hated 
Janey's  brothers,  because  he  was  jealous  of  her 
love  for  them ;  and  now,  though  the  original  reason 
was  gone,  he  still  hated  them  for  the  cause  of  that 
reason — for  what  he  believed  was  the  foundation  of 
Janey's  love,  their  physical  strength  and  fitness. 

However,  there  was  not  much  of  either  to  be 
seen  in  Leonard  now.  He  swayed  pitifully  as  he 
stood  there  facing  Quentin,  and  though  his  lips 
moved,  no  sounds  came  past  them.  Then  he 
turned  away.  Lowe  watched  him  stagger  across 
the  field.  He  expected  him  to  fall  every  minute, 
except  once,  when  for  some  strange  reason  he 
expected  him  to  turn  back  and  confront  him  again. 
But  he  neither  fell  nor  turned.  He  stumbled 
blindly  on,  then  disappeared  into  the  next  field. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Quentin  stood  alone  in 
the  great  meadow,  under  the  hurrying  sky.  The 
scent  of  hay  no  longer  blew  to  him  wistfully,  but 
triumphantly,  like  the  fragrance  of  festal  wine. 
He  spread  out  his  arms,  and  stood  there  in  the 
quivering,  scented  hush,  while  the  wind  cooled 
his  damp  forehead,  and  ruffled  the  hair  back  from 
it  tenderly. 


COWSANISH  251 

Then  he  turned  homewards  from  Cowsanish. 

But  he  had  not  gone  far  before  he  altered  his 
direction.  He  struck  again  southwards,  through 
the  grass  lanes  that  wind  past  Old  Surrey  Hall, 
towards  Shovelstrode.  He  would  lay  his  thankful- 
ness, his  deliverance,  his  redemption,  at  Tony's 
feet — at  the  feet  of  the  woman  who  symbolised 
them  all. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AND  I  ALSO  DREAMED 

BEHIND  the  stage  at  the  Bechstein  Hall  one  could 
hear  the  applause  that  burst  from  the  auditorium. 
Nigel  listened  hungrily.  He  wondered  whether 
those  hands  would  clap  and  those  feet  stamp  when 
it  was  his  turn  to  leave  the  platform,  his  violin 
under  his  arm.  He  stood  leaning  against  the  wall, 
his  fiddle  already  out  of  its  case,  but  still  wrapped 
tenderly  in  silks.  The  little  group  of  girls  and 
men  who  were  whispering  together  not  far  off  sent 
him  from  time  to  time  glances  of  mingled  curiosity 
and  admiration. 

There  was  a  big  difference  between  the  convict 
with  his  close-cropped  hair  and  disreputable 
clothes,  and  this  young  man  in  orthodox  evening 
dress,  whose  hair  was  brushed  in  a  heavy,  shining 
mass  from  his  forehead,  to  hang  over  his  ears  and 
neck  in  the  approved  musician's  style.  Nigel  had 
been  unable  to  resist  this  rather  primitive  piece  of 
swank — besides,  it  was  symbolical,  it  marked  the 
contrast  between  what  he  had  been  in  the  days  of 
his  shame,  and  what  he  was  now  in  the  days  of 
regeneration.  The  girl  who  had  just  come  off  the 
stage  stared  at  him  half  amused,  half  envying. 

"  Do  you  come  on  soon?  " 

"  Yes — after  this  next  thing." 

"  Just  a  little  bit  nervous?  " 

He  nodded. 
252 


AND  I  ALSO  DREAMED  253 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  in  a  mortal  funk. 
He  would  not  have  believed  it  possible  that  he 
could  be  afraid  of  a  crowd  of  strangers,  who  were 
nothing  to  him  and  to  whom  he  was  nothing. 
But  infinite  things  were  at  stake.  If  he  failed,  if 
he  made  an  ass  of  himself,  he  pushed  further  away, 
if  not  altogether  out  of  sight,  the  dream  in  which 
for  the  last  six  months  he  had  worked  and  lived. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  succeeded,  if  to-morrow's 
papers  took  his  name  out  of  the  gutter,  just  as 
four  years  ago  they  had  helped  to  kick  it  in,  his 
dream  would  be  transmuted  into  hope.  The  violin 
he  clutched  so  desperately  was  no  mere  instrument 
of  music,  but  an  instrument  of  redemption,  the 
token  of  that  dear  salvation  which  if  a  man  but  see 
truly  he  must  grasp. 

Six  months  had  gone  by  since  he  left  Sparrow 
Hall,  and  during  them  he  had  worked  desperately 
with  scanty  rest.  He  had  flung  his  proud  self-will 
and  undisciplined  love  of  prettiness  into  mechanical 
exercises  for  fingers  and  bow,  he  had  subjected  his 
taste  for  the  tuneful  and  sentimental  to  Herr  von 
Gleichroeder's  dissonantal  preferences.  But  he 
had  been  happy — his  dream  had  always  been  with 
him,  and  had  breathed  all  the  sentimentality  of 
hope  into  the  dry  bones  of  Chabrier,  Chausson  and 
Strauss.  He  had  found  it  everywhere — even  in  his 
bow  exercises. 

He  was  happy,  too,  in  his  environment — the 
companionship  'of  his  fellow-students  with  their 
young,  .clear  spirits  and  enthusiasm.  Most  of 
them  knew  his  story,  but  in  their  careless  code  it 
did  not  tell  much  against  him,  for  every  one 


254  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

admired  him  for  his  originality  and  liked  him  for 
his  desperate  pluck.  So  Nigel  found  a  new  form 
of  gratification  for  that  strange  part  of  him  born 
in  prison.  The  companionship  of  an  unripe  little 
school-girl  with  her  slang,  the  sight  of  children 
dancing  in  the  dusk,  had  been  succeeded  by 
many  a  racket  with  young  men  and  women  of  his 
own  age — Bohemian  supper-parties,  followed  by 
impromptu  concerts  or  startling  variety  turns; 
expeditions  in  rowdy  throngs  to  a  theatre  or  music- 
hall;  small,  friendly  meals  with  some  fellow- 
enthusiast,  who  confessed  in  private  an  admiration 
for  Gounod.  ...  It  was  a  draught  of  new  life  to 
him;  he  loved  it  all — down  to  the  constant  musical 
jargon,  the  endless  "  shop."  Much  of  his  bitter- 
ness was  leaving  him,  his  sullen  bouts  were  rarer, 
even  the  lines  of  his  face  were  growing  rounded 
and  more  boyish. 

Chausson's  "  Chanson  Perpetuelle  "  drawled  and 
wailed  its  way  towards  a  close.  Nigel's  muscles 
tightened  to  prevent  a  shudder.  To-night  the  hall 
would  be  full  of  the  friends  and  relations  of  the 
students;  they  had  come  out  to  encourage  their 
respective  prodigies,  and  his  item  on  the  pro- 
gramme would  belong,  so  to  speak,  to  no  one.  He 
almost  wished  he  had  not  forbidden  Len  and 
Janey  to  come — at  least  they  would  have  made  a 
noise. 

The  thought  of  Len  and  Janey  brought  an 
additional  stake  into  the  game.  He  must  succeed 
for  their  sakes  too.  He  must  justify  to  them  his 
departure  from  Sparrow  Hall.  If  he  failed,  they 
would  look  upon  it  as  a  mere  piece  of  obstinate 


AND  I  ALSO  DREAMED  255 

cruelty,  they  would  plague  him  to  return,  and  he, 
in  all  the  sickness  of  failure,  would  find  it  hard  to 
resist  them. 

Another  round  of  applause  .  .  .  the  "  Chanson 
Perpetuelle "  had  ended,  and  the  singer,  a  self- 
confident  little  contralto,  came  off,  with  the  string 
quartet  which  had  accompanied  her.  Herr  von 
Gleichroeder  bustled  up,  and  there  was  some  talk 
of  an  encore,  which  was  in  the  end  refused.  Then 
he  turned  to  Nigel. 

"  You'd  better  go  on  at  once.  Here  are  two 
telegrams  for  you — but  you  mustn't  wait." 

Nigel  stuffed  the  two  yellow  envelopes  into  his 
pocket,  and  moved  mechanically  towards  the  stage. 
Two  telegrams — a  sick  hope  was  in  his  heart — one 
was  from  Len,  he  knew;  but  the  other  .  .  .  Tony 
knew  the  date  of  his  concert;  perhaps.  .  .  .  He 
dared  not  think  it,  yet  that  "  perhaps "  made 
him  hold  his  head  high  as  he  walked  on  the 
stage. 

He  bowed  stiffly.  Von  Gleichroeder  had  spent  a 
long  time  trying  to  teach  him  a  graceful  bow.  He 
remembered  his  last  public  appearance,  and  it 
made  him  not  only  stiff  but  a  trifle  hard.  There 
was  no  applause  at  first — no  one  in  the  hall  knew 
him;  then  a  kind-hearted  old  lady  felt  sorry  for 
the  poor  young  man  who  had  no  one  to  encourage 
him,  and  gave  a  feeble  clap,  which  was  more 
disconcerting  than  silence. 

The  accompanist  struck  the  chord — his  fiddle  was 
soon  in  tune  and  he  lifted  it  to  his  shoulder.  A 
cold  chill  ran  down  his  back — he  had  entirely  for- 
gotten the  first  bars  of  the  Prelude 


256  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

The  accompanist  had  some  preliminary  business. 
Nigel  listened  to  him  in  detached  horror,  as  if  he 
were  the  spectator  of  some  dreadful  scene  with 
which  he  had  absolutely  no  connection.  He  heard 
the  music  crashing  through  familiar  phrases — only 
five  bars  more — only  three — only  one — 

Then  there  was  a  pause-bar — a  very  long 
pause. 

Then  suddenly  he  realised  that  he  had  been 
playing  for  some  time.  The  violin  was  warm 
under  his  chin,  the  bow  warm  between  his  fingers. 
He  knew  that  if  he  stopped  to  think  about  it  all, 
he  was  lost.  It  was  always  fatal  for  him  to  think 
of  his  music  as  so  many  little  black  signs  on  paper, 
and  it  was  nearly  as  fatal  for  him  to  think  of  it 
as  so  many  movements  of  his  bow  or  positions  of 
his  fingers.  Von  Gleichroeder  had  always  had  to 
combat  his  pupil's  tendency  to  play  almost  entirely 
by  ear,  lost  meanwhile  in  a  kind  of  sentimental 
dream — in  the  transports  of  which  he  swayed 
violently  from  side  to  side  and  generally  looked 
ridiculous. 

To-night  he  slapped  into  the  Scriabin  with  tre- 
mendous vigour — the  infinite  pains  he  had  spent 
during  the  last  six  months  showing  clearly  in  the 
ease  with  which  he  surmounted  its  technical  diffi- 
culties. But  the  watchful  ear  of  von  Gleichroeder 
told  him  that  his  pupil  was  playing  subconsciously, 
so  to  speak — from  his  heart,  rather  than  his  head. 
If  anything — the  slipping  of  a  peg  or  a  sudden  noise 
in  the  hall — were  to  interrupt  him,  to  wake  him  up, 
all  would  be  lost. 

But     luckily     nothing     happened.      Nigel     was 


AND  1  ALSO  DREAMED  257 

roused  only  by  the  last  crash  of  his  bow  on  the 
strings.  The  Prelude  was  finished,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  desperate  panic  seized  him.  He  forgot 
to  bow,  and  bolted  headlong  from  the  stage. 

The  audience  applauded  heartily,  and  his 
fellow-students  crowded  round  him  with  con- 
gratulations. 

"  Well  done,  old  man! — pulled  it  off  splendidly," 
and  his  back  was  vigorously  thumped. 

"  Worked  up  beautifully  over  the  climax." 

"  But  played  G  instead  of  B  in  the  last  bar 
but  one,"  added  a  precise  youth. 

"  Muddled  your  runs  in  that  chromatic  bit,"  put 
in  some  one  else,  encouraged. 

"  Go  on  and  bow — go  on  and  bow,"  blustered 
von  Gleichroeder,  hurrying  up. 

Nigel  bowed  perfunctorily  and  came  back.  The 
clapping  did  not  subside, 

"  I  don't  allow  encores,"  said  the  German,  "  but 
you're  in  luck,  my  friend,  in  luck." 

The  colour  was  darkening  on  Nigel's  face.  It 
was  his  hour  of  triumph.  He  wished  Tony  was 
there,  and  Janey  and  Leonard — he  would  let  them 
come  to  his  next  concert. 

He  went  on  and  bowed  again — he  had  to  appear 
several  times  before  the  demand  for  an  encore  was 
given  up  as  hopeless,  and  the  applause  gradually 
died  away. 

He  went  to  the  back  of  the  stage  and  sat  down, 
holding  his  head  in  his  hands.  He  wanted  to  be 
alone,  and  to  read  his  telegrams.  The  future  was 
now  a  flaming  promise — his  feet  at  last  were  set 
on  the  honourable  way.  He  let  his  mind  lose 
17 


258  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

itself  in  its  dream,  and  for  a  moment  he  was 
conscious  of  nothing  but  infinite  hope.  From  the 
stage  a  plaintive,  bizarre  air  of  Moussorgski's 
came  to  him.  To  be  Russian  was  to  von  Gleich- 
roeder  synonymous  with  to  be  modern,  and 
Moussorgski  and  Rimsky  Korsakov  were  en- 
couraged where  their  French  or  Italian  contem- 
poraries were  banned.  Every  now  and  then  a  little 
slow  ripple  brought  an  end  to  strange  wailing  dis- 
sonances ;  it  was  played  without  much  fire — without 
much  feeling — but  it  haunted. 

Nigel  opened  his  first  telegram.    It  read — 

"  Go  it,  old  chap — laurels  is  cheap." 

That  was  from  Leonard,  and  a  half  tender,  half 
humorous  smile  crept  over  Furlonger's  grim 
mouth.  Dear  old  Len! — dear  old  Janey!  How 
he  wished  they  were  there!  He  would  wire  to 
them  the  first  thing  to-morrow  and  tell  them  of  his 
success. 

Then  suddenly  the  smile  passed  away,  and  his 
hands  shook  a  little.  Who  had  sent  the  second 
telegram  ? 

He  tore  nervously  at  the  envelope.  Had  Tony 
remembered  him?  one  word  of  encouragement  from 
her  was  worth  all  the  clappings  and  stampings  of 
the  audience,  all  the  eulogies  of  the  press.  .  .  . 

"  And  I  also  dreamed,  which  pleased  me  most, 
That  you  loved  me  still  the  same.  .  ." 

He  took  out  the  telegram  and  unfolded  it.  It 
ran — 

"  Come  at  once.    Leonard  is  ill.    Janey." 


CHAPTER  VII 

WOODS  AT   NIGHT 

THE  little  star  melody  wailed  on,  rippled  charac- 
teristically and  died.  Even  then  Nigel  did  not 
move,  he  sat  with  his  hands  dropped  between  his 
knees,  still  holding  Janey's  telegram.  He  seemed 
to  be  sitting  alone,  in  a  black  corner  of  space, 
stricken,  blank,  forsaken. 

Then  suddenly  he  recovered  himself.  "  Come  at 
once."  He  must  go  at  once.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet,  pushed  his  way  past  one  or  two  meaningless 
shadows  who  called  after  him  meaningless  words, 
and  the  next  minute  found  himself  in  the  passage 
behind  the  stage.  Seizing  his  hat  and  overcoat 
from  the  wall,  he  hurried  to  the  stage-door.  The 
street  outside  was  quiet,  at  either  end  were  lights 
and  commotion,  but  the  street  itself  was  plunged  in 
echoing  peace.  A  strange  fear  assaulted  Nigel — 
he  hurried  into  Oxford  Street  and  hailed  a  taxi. 
Then  he  knew  what  he  was  afraid  of — the  oppor- 
tunity to  sit  and  think. 

He  tried  not  to  think — he  tried  to  find  refuge 
from  thought  even  in  the  words  that  had  smitten 
him.  "  Come  at  once.  Leonard  is  ill." — he 
repeated  them  over  and  over,  striving  for  mere 
mechanical  processes.  The  taxi  threaded  swiftly 
through  the  traffic,  the  lights  swung  past  with  the 
roar  and  the  whistles.  Luckily  the  streets  were  not 

259 


260  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

much  crowded  at  that  hour — it  was  just  before  the 
closing  of  the  theatres  and  the  consequent  rush.  .  .  . 

He  was  at  Victoria,  and  a  porter  had  told  him 
that  the  next  train  for  East  Grinstead  did  not  start 
for  half-an-hour.  He  paced  miserably  up  and 
down,  cursing  the  blank  time,  gnawed  by  con- 
jectures. "  Leonard  is  ill."  Len  was  hardly  ever 
ill,  and  it  must  be  something  serious,  or  Janey 
would  not  have  said  "  Come  at  once."  It  must 
have  been  sudden  too,  for  the  two  telegrams  had 
been  handed  to  him  together.  Perhaps  there  had 
been  an  accident.  Perhaps  Len  was  dead.  Ice 
seemed  to  form  suddenly  on  Nigel's  heart — Janey 
might  be  trying  to  break  the  news  gently  by  saying 

his  brother  was  ill.  No  doubt  Len  was  dead 

Oh,  Lenny,  Lenny! 

A  strange  thing  had  happened.  The  dream  in 
which  he  had  lived  and  worked  and  slept  and  eaten 
for  the  last  six  months  had  suddenly  fallen  back 
from  him,  leaving  him  utterly  alone  with  his 
brother  and  sister.  His  life  in  London,  with  all 
its  struggle  and  ambition,  was  as  something  far 
off,  unreal;  no  part  of  his  life  seemed  real,  except 
what  he  had  spent  with  Len  and  Janey.  After 
all  did  anything  really  matter  as  much  as  they? 
They  had  been  with  him  always,  and  his  dream 
had  sustained  him  only  a  few  months.  He  thought 
of  their  childhood  together  in  the  old  Sussex  house, 
of  their  adventures  and  scrapes  and  hide-and-seeks ; 
he  thought  of  their  growing-up,  of  the  wonderful 
discoveries  they  had  made  about  themselves,  and 
shared;  he  thought  of  their  arrival  at  Sparrow  Hall, 


WOODS  AT  NIGHT  261 

full  of  pluck  and  plans,  of  the  difficulties  that  had 
damped  the  one  and  dashed  the  other — of  the  awful 
disgrace  that  had  separated  the  three  Furlongers 
for  damnable  years.  Len  and  Janey  had  been 
his  pals,  his  comrades,  his  comforters  before  he 
had  so  much  as  heard  of  Tony.  She  was  not 
dethroned,  his  dream  was  not  dead,  but  the  past 
which  he  had  half  impatiently  thrust  behind  him 
was  coming  back  to  show  that  it,  as  well  as  the 
future,  held  treasures  and  the  immortality  of  love. 

The  half-hour  was  nearly  over,  and  the  plat- 
form was  dotted  with  men  and  women  in  evening 
dress,  who  had  come  up  from  the  country  to  the 
theatres,  and  now  were  going  home  by  the  last 
train.  Nigel  shut  himself  into  a  third-class  car- 
riage. The  train  was  not  very  crowded,  and  no 
one  disturbed  him.  Almost  mechanically  he 
lighted  a  cigarette,  then  leaned  back,  closing  his 
eyes. 

The  train  began  to  move — it  pulled  itself  to- 
gether with  a  shudder,  then  slid  slowly  out  of  the 
station.  Signal  lights  swept  past,  whistles  wailed 
up  out  of  the  darkness  and  died  away — suburban 
stations  gleamed — then  the  train  swung  out  into 
the  night. 

Both  the  windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  wind 
blew  in  on  Nigel,  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  His 
cigarette  had  gone  out,  but  he  still  sucked  and  bit 
the  end,  filling  his  mouth  with  strings  of  tobacco, 
which  he  did  not  notice  either,  though  every  now 
and  then  he  mechanically  spat  them  out.  All  he 
was  conscious  of  was  the  pungent  smell  of  night, 


262  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

which  invaded  even  the  rushing  train.  He  knew 
that  the  trees  were  heavy  and  the  hedges  tangled 
with  their  green — he  tried  to  fling  his  imagination 
into  some  sheltered  hollow  by  a  wood,  and  find 
rest  there.  He  tried  to  think  of  sheep  and  grass 
and  flowers  and  watching  stars.  But  it  was  no  use 
— the  night  was  full  of  the  restlessness  of  the 
pulsing  train,  he  could  not  escape  from  the  train, 
which  throbbed  like  his  heart,  and  by  its  throbbing 
seemed  to  hold  his  heart  a  prisoner  in  it,  as  if  some 
mysterious  astral  link  connected  the  two  pulses. 
The  train  was  the  heart  of  the  night  and  darkness, 
pulsing  in  ceaseless  despair,  and  he  was  the  heart 
of  the  train,  pulsing  despairingly  too,  the  very 
centre  of  sorrow.  It  was  a  definite  strain  for  him 
to  realise  this,  and  yet  somehow  the  sensation 
would  not  relax — it  was  infinite  relief  when  at  last 
the  great,  noisy  heart,  the  heart  of  the  train, 
stopped  beating,  though  its  silence  brought  with  it 
a  sudden  wrench  and  shock,  like  death. 

Nigel  stumbled  out  on  the  East  Grinstead  plat- 
form, his  limbs  cramped,  his  head  swimming.  He 
thought  of  taking  a  cab,  but  by  the  time  he  had 
roused  up  the  local  livery  stables  and  set  off  in 
one  of  their  concerns  he  could  almost  have  reached 
Sparrow  Hall  by  the  fields.  A  walk  would  do  him 
good.  The  night  was  fine,  though  it  smelled  of 
rain. 

He  had  soon  left  the  town  behind  him,  and 
struck  across  the  fields  by  St.  Margaret's  convent. 
There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  were  unusually 
lustrous,  and  the  distance  was  clear,  Oxted  chalk 


WOODS  AT  NIGHT  263 

quarry  showing  a  pale  scar  on  the  northern  hills. 
Now  and  then  dark  sweeps  of  cloud  passed  swiftly 
overhead,  and  the  wind  came  in  sudden  gusts, 
whistling  over  the  fields,  and  throbbing  through 
the  woods  with  a  great  swish  of  leaves.  Nigel  had 
not  seen  the  Three  Counties  since  Easter,  which 
had  been  early  and  bleak.  The  London  months 
since  then  had  to  a  certain  extent  denaturalised 
him,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague  strangeness 
in  the  fields.  It  was,  moreover,  four  years  since 
he  had  seen  them  in  their  June  lushness — the  scent 
of  grass  was  brought  him  pungently  now  and  then, 
the  scent  of  leaves,  the  scent  of  water. 

He  crossed  from  Sussex  into  Surrey  at  Hacken- 
den,  then  plunged  through  Ashplats  Wood  into 
the  Wilderwick  road.  His  footsteps  were  like 
shadows  on  the  awful  silence  that  filled  the  night. 
The  stars  were  flashing  from  a  coal-black  sky — 
between  the  high  hedges  only  a  wisp  of  the  great 
waste  was  visible  with  its  dazzle  of  constellations. 
Nigel  saw  Cancer  burning  his  lamps  in  the  west, 
while  straight  above  him  hung  the  sign  of  Libra, 
brilliant,  cold,  unearthly.  Surely  the  stars  were 
larger  and  brighter  to-night  than  was  normal,  than 
was  good.  He  wished  he  was  at  Sparrow  Hall.  It 
could  not  be  that  he  was  frightened  of  the  stars, 
and  yet  somehow  they  seemed  part  of  an  evil 
dream.  Perhaps  he  would  wake  to  find  himself 
in  his  Netting  Hill  lodgings — perhaps  his  dream 
would  go  on  for  ever,  eternal,  malevolent,  but  still 
a  dream — he  would  lie  on  in  his  bed  at  Netting 
Hill,  and  people  would  shake  him  and  try  to  wake 


264  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

him,  and,  when  they  could  not  wake  him,  take  him 
and  bury  him — and  he  would  lie  in  the  earth,  deep, 
with  a  stone  over  him — but  still  with  his  awful 
dream  of  night  and  high  hedges,  terror  and 
stars.  .  .  . 

He  had  come  to  Sparrow  Hall.  He  saw  the  tall, 
black  chimney  against  a  mass  of  stars — it  seemed 
to  be  canting  a  little,  perhaps  that  was  part  of  the 
dream.  There  was  a  light  in  Len's  room,  and 
the  next  moment  some  one  moved  between  it  and 
the  window. 

"Janey  .  .  ."  called  Nigel  softly. 

His  voice  rose  with  the  scents  of  the  garden,  in 
the  hush  of  the  night.  The  next  minute  there 
were  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  then  the  door  flew 
open,  and  Janey  was  in  Nigel's  arms. 

They  clung  together  for  several  moments.  The 
door  had  slammed  in  the  draught,  and  the  darkness 
crept  softly  round  them  like  an  embrace.  The 
dream  slipped  from  Nigel — his  silly  and  hideous 
nightmare  of  stars.  This  quivering,  tear-stained 
woman  in  his  arms  had  brought  him  into  the  reality 
of  sorrow. 

"  Where  is  he  ? — what's  happened  ?  "  he  asked, 
still  holding  Janey. 

"  He's  upstairs  in  bed — he's  very  ill,  Nigel." 

"But  he's  not  dead?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Is  there  any  hope?  " 

"  Not  much — he's  got  pneumonia.    It's  dreadful." 

"  Has  the  doctor  seen  him?  " 

"  Yes — he's  been  gone  only  an  hour.     He  said 


WOODS  AT  NIGHT  265 

you  were  to  be  sent  for  at  once.  Oh,  Nigel,  Nigel, 
it's  my  fault  ! " 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"  I  was  wretched  and  selfish — he'd  been  queer  all 
the  afternoon,  and  I  didn't  notice  it.  I  thought 
only  of  myself.  Then  he  went  out  while  I  was 
asleep,  and  when  he  came  back.  .  .  .  Oh,  Nigel! 
.  .  .  the  doctor  says  he  practically  did  for  himself 
by  going  out  then." 

Nigel  did  not  understand,  but  his  mind  made 
no  effort  to  grasp  at  details. 

"  I'd  better  go  at  once,"  he  said ;  "  is  he 
conscious  ?  " 

"  Yes — but  he  says  funny  things  sometimes." 

She  led  the  way  upstairs,  and  the  next  minute 
they  were  in  Leonard's  room.  It  was  a  queer  little 
room,  extremely  low,  with  bulging  walls,  sagging 
beams  and  an  uneven  floor.  Len  lay  propped 
very  high  with  pillows.  His  face  was  drawn  and 
feverish — he  was  literally  fighting  for  his  breath, 
and  his  lips  were  blue. 

He  smiled  when  he  saw  Nigel. 

"Hullo,  old  man!  .  .  .  good  of  you  to  come. 
.  .  .  Lord !  " — as  he  saw  his  clothes — "  put  me 
among  the  nuts." 

"  Don't  talk,"  said  his  brother  sharply. 

"  Your  hair  .  .  ."  panted  Len. 

"Shut  up!" 

Len  pointed  to  a  glass  of  water  by  the  bed. 
Janey  gave  him  a  drink.  He  began  to  cough 
violently,  and  his  face  became  purple.  Nigel  felt 
sick. 


266  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"I — I'm  better,"  gasped  Leonard.  "I — I  had 
...  a  beastly  stitch  .  .  .  but  it's  gone." 

"When's  the  doctor  coming  again?"  Nigel 
asked  Janet. 

"  The  first  thing  to-morrow." 

"  He  ought  to  have  a  nurse." 

"  Oh,  no ! "  cried  Len ;  "  you  and  Janey  can 
manage  me  .  .  .  between  you  .  .  .  I'll  soon  be  all 
right  ...  I  don't  want  any  little  Tottie  Cough- 
drop  fussing  round." 

"  He's  dreadful,"  said  Janey,  "  he  will  talk." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  like  this?  " 

"  As  I  tell  you,  he'd  been  feeling  queer  all  the 
afternoon.  Then  I  crocked  up  for  some  silly 
reason,  and  instead  of  being  properly  attended 
to,  he  had  to  look  after  me " — a  sob  broke  into 
her  voice,  and  she  pulled  Nigel  aside.  "  The 
doctor  says  it's  a  frightfully  acute  case,"  she 
whispered. 

"  But  ...  but "  interrupted  Len,  "  Nigel 

hasn't  told  us  ...  about  the  concert  .  .  .  where's 
the  laurel  crown  ?  .  .  .  left  it  in  the  train  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  shut  up !  I'll  tell  you  anything  you 
like  if  you'll  hold  your  tongue." 

"  Tell  him  while  I'm  giving  him  his  milk,"  said 
Janey ;  "  the  doctor  ordered  him  milk  every  two 
hours,  but  he  simply  won't  take  it." 

"  I'll  make  him,"  said  his  brother  grimly. 

"  I'll  go  and  fetch  it — you  stay  with  him, 
Nigel." 

She  left  the  room,  and  Len  lay  silent  a  moment, 
looking  out  at  the  stars. 


WOODS  AT  NIGHT  267 

"  Old  man,"  he  whispered  suddenly,  "while 
Janey's  away  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"  What  is  it  ? — can't  it  wait  till  you're 
better?" 

"  No.  .  .  .  It's  this.  .  .  .  She  .  .  .  she's  in  ... 
infernal  trouble." 

Nigel  quailed. 

"What  is  it,  Len?" 

"  She'd  rather  tell  you  herself  .  .  .  she's  going 
to  ...  all  I  want  to  say  is  ...  when  you  hear, 
just  remember  that  .  .  .  she's  our  Janey." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VIGIL 

THE  doctor  called  early  the  next  morning,  and 
looked  serious.  Leonard  had  had  a  restless  night, 
and  his  symptoms  were  becoming  very  grave.  He 
still  kept  up  his  efforts  at  conversation,  though  they 
were  more  painful  than  ever. 

"  I — I'm  not  going  to  die,  Doc,"  he  panted. 

"  Well,  keep  quiet,  and  we'll  see  about  it,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"  But  have  you  heard  about  my  brother?  .  .  . 
the  one  who  fills  the  Albert  Hall?  ...  Oh, 
*  ninety-nine,'  since  you  insist." 

Nigel  had  been  sent  over  to  Dormans  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  to  buy  up  all  the  papers  he 
could.  Several  of  them  had  a  report  of  von 
Gleichroeder's  concert,  and  most  of  these  men- 
tioned Nigel's  performance  favourably. 

"  Mr.  Furlonger  has  undoubtedly  a  great  deal 
to  learn  on  the  mechanical  side  of  his  art,  but  he 
has  a  wonderful  force  of  temperament,  which  last 
night  compensated  in  many  ways  for  faulty 
technique.  He  even  managed  to  work  some 
emotional  beauty  into  Scriabin's  bundle  of  tricks, 
and  one  can  imagine  that  in  music  which  depended 
on  the  beautiful  instead  of  on  the  bizarre  for  its 
appeal,  he  would  have  the  chance,  which  was 
denied  him  last  night,  of  a  really  fine  perform- 
ance. We  do  not  say  that  Mr.  Furlonger  will  ever 
be  a  master,  but  if  he  will  avoid  fashionable 
268 


VIGIL  269 

gymnastics  and  not  despise  such  out-of-date  con- 
siderations as  beauty  and  harmony,  he  may  be- 
come a  temperamental  violinist  of  the  first  order." 
All  the  critics,  more  or  less,  had  a  hit  at  the 
"  advanced "  type  of  music,  and  Nigel  imagined 
von  Gleichroeder's  wrath. 

Len  insisted  on  having  all  the  criticisms  read 
to  him,  and  a  thrill  of  pride  went  through  even 
Janey's  numb  breast.  She  had  never  tried  to 
speak  to  Nigel  alone,  and  he  gave  her  no  hint  that 
he  knew  she  was  in  trouble.  But  when  his  heart 
was  not  bursting  with  anxiety  for  Len,  it  brimmed 
with  compassion  for  Janey.  She  might  have  been 
nursing  her  brother  for  weeks  instead  of  hours  to 
judge  by  her  haggard  face,  white  lips,  and  faded 
eyes.  Her  movements  were  listless,  and  her  figure 
in  rest  had  the  droop  of  utter  exhaustion. 

She  and  Nigel  divided  the  nursing  between 
them.  Len  was  never  left  alone.  He  had  to  be 
fed  every  two  hours,  and  it  generally  took  both 
of  them  to  do  it,  as  he  was  very  perverse  in  the 
matter  of  meals,  saying  that  the  food  choked  him. 
In  the  afternoon  he  became  a  little  delirious.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  ask  for  things,  and  yet  to 
be  unable  to  say  what  he  really  meant,  often  say- 
ing something  quite  different.  He  was  intensely 
pathetic  in  his  weakness.  This  dulling,  or  rather 
disturbance,  of  his  faculties  seemed  to  distress  him 
far  more  than  his  difficult  breathing  or  the  pain 
in  his  side.  Now  and  then  he  would  hold  out  his 
hands  piteously  to  Nigel  and  Janey,  and  would  lie 
for  some  time  holding  the  hand  of  each,  his  brown 
eyes  staring  at  them  imploringly,  as  if  they  were 


270  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

fighting  for  the  powers  of  speech  which  the  tongue 
had  lost — in  the  way  that  the  eyes  of  animals  often 
fight. 

They  tried  to  make  him  go  to  sleep,  but  he  was 
always  restless  and  awake.  They  read  to  him, 
talked  to  him  and  to  each  other,  with  no  success. 
Outside,  the  day  was  dull,  yet  warm  and  steamy. 
Every  now  and  then  a  shower  would  rustle  noisily 
on  the  leaves,  and  after  it  passed  there  would  be 
many  drippings. 

Nigel  went  out  for  an  hour  or  two's  work  on 
the  farm  when  evening  fell.  It  seemed  extraor- 
dinary that  only  some  eighteen  hours  lay  be- 
tween him  and  the  concert  at  the  Bechstein  Hall. 
That  part  of  his  life  had  been  put  aside — not  for 
ever,  perhaps,  but  none  the  less  temporarily 
banished  by  a  usurping  present.  Some  day,  no 
doubt,  he  would  put  on  the  last  six  months  again, 
just  as  he  would  put  on  the  dress  clothes  he  had 
folded  away,  but  now  he  wore  corduroys  and  the 
last  eighteen  hours. 

At  six  the  doctor  called  again.  He  shook  his 
head  at  the  sight  of  Leonard. 

"  He  must  have  a  nurse,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no  ...  for  heaven's  sake ! "  groaned 
Len. 

"  Nigel  and  I  can  nurse  him,"  said  Janey. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  have  you  seen  your  own 
face  in  the  glass  ?  " 

Len  raised  himself  with  difficulty  on  his  pillows. 

"Lord,  Janey! — you  look  quite  cooked  up.  ... 
I  say,  old  girl,  I  won't  have  it.  ...  Doctor,  I 
surrender," 


VIGIL  271 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  send  any  one  in 
to-night — but  I'll  try.  Anyhow,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing— now  '  ninety-nine,'  please." 

Nigel  went  over  to  East  Grinstead  for  ice  and 
fruit.  Len  was  dreadfully  thirsty  all  the  evening. 
They  put  bags  of  ice  on  his  forehead  and  sides,  but 
it  did  not  seem  to  cool  him  much.  The  doctor  had 
left  a  sleeping-draught,  to  be  administered  the 
last  thing  at  night. 

"  If  I  take  it,"  said  Len,  "  will  you  two  go  to 
bed?" 

"  Janey  will,"  said  Nigel.  "  I'll  have  a  shake- 
down in  here." 

"  Well,  it'll  keep  me  quiet,  I  suppose  ...  so 
I'll  take  the  beastly  thing.  ...  I  want  to  sleep 
.  .  .  but  I  don't  want  to  die.  ...  I  won't  die, 
in  fact." 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,  old  man." 

He  lifted  Len  in  his  strong  arms,  and  settled 
him  more  comfortably  in  the  bedclothes.  Then  he 
gave  him  the  sleeping-draught. 

The  window  was  wide  open,  and  one  could  hear 
the  rain  pattering  on  the  lilac  bushes.  The  wind, 
sweet-smelling  with  damp  and  hay,  puffed  the 
curtains  into  the  room,  then  sucked  them  back. 
A  fire  was  burning  low  on  the  hearth.  Janey  went 
and  sat  beside  it.  Nigel  sat  by  the  bed,  for  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking  his  brother  suffered 
from  strange  fears. 

At  last,  after  a  few  sighs  and  struggles,  Len 
fell  asleep,  still  high  on  his  pillows,  the  lines  of  his 
face  very  tired  and  grim.  There  was  a  little  light 
in  the  room,  or  rather  the  mingled  lights  of  a  dying 


272  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

fire  and  a  fighting  moon.  Nigel  rose  softly,  and 
went  over  to  Janet. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed." 

"  No — I'd  rather  stay  here." 

"  You  must  have  some  sleep,  or  you'll  be  worn 
out." 

"  I  couldn't  sleep." 

The  words  broke  from  her  in  a  strangling  sigh, 
and  the  next  minute  his  arm  crept  round  her,  for 
he  remembered  Leonard's  words. 

"  Dear  Janey  .  .  ."  he  whispered. 

She  began  to  cry. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  held  her  to  him,  helping 
her  to  choke  her  sobs  against  his  breast. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  is?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  there's  anything  more  than 
that  ?  "  and  she  pointed  towards  the  bed. 

"  Len  told  me." 

"  About  Quentin?  .  .  ." 

"Quentin!" 

"  Yes — I  thought  you  said  he'd  told  you." 

"  He  told  me  you  were  wretched  about  something. 
But  who's  Quentin? — not  Quentin  Lowe?  " 

They  were  the  very  words  Len  had  used,  and 
Janey  shuddered. 

"  Yes  .  .  ."  she  said  faintly,  "  Quentin  Lowe." 

"  But " 

"  You'll  never  understand.  ...  I  hid  it  from 
you  for  three  years." 

"Hid  what,  Janey?" 

"  My— my  love." 

Nigel's  arm  dropped  from  her  waist,  but  hers 


VIGIL  273 

was  round  his  neck,  and  she  clung  to  him 
feverishly. 

"  Yes,  J  loved  him.  I  loved  him  and  I  pitied 
him  .  .  .  and  I  wanted,  I  tried,  to  help  him — and 
— and  I've  been  his  ruin — and  another  woman  has 
saved  him." 

Nigel  was  speechless.  What  astonished  him, 
the  man  of  secrets,  most,  was  that  Janey  should 
have  had  a  secret  from  him  for  three  years. 

"  Don't  tremble  so,  darling — but  tell  me  about  it. 
I  won't  be  hard  on  you." 

"  You  will — when  you  know  all." 

"  Does  Len  know  all?" 

"  Yes." 

He  glanced  over  to  the  sleeping  man,  then  put 
back  his  arm  round  Janey's  waist. 

"  Now  tell  me— all." 

Janey  told  him — all. 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence.  The  rain 
was  still  beating  on  the  leaves,  but  the  moon  had 
torn  through  the  clouds,  and  flung  a  white  patch 
over  Leonard's  feet.  The  fire  was  just  a  red  lump, 
and  Janey  and  Nigel,  sitting  outside  the  moonrays, 
were  lost  in  darkness. 

Janey  wondered  when  her  brother  would  speak. 
She  could  see  the  outline  of  his  face,  blurred  in 
the  shadows.  He  held  his  head  high,  and  he  had 
not  dropped  his  arm  from  her  waist,  but  his  free 
hand  was  clenched — then  she  felt  the  other  clench 
against  her  side.  Sickening  fears  assailed  her. 
Why  did  he  not  speak?  Only  that  arm  round  her 
gave  her  hope.  .  .  . 
18 


274  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Then  suddenly  he  took  it  away,  and  put  both 
his  hands  over  his  face.  She  saw  his  shoulders 
quiver,  just  for  a  moment,  then  for  what  seemed 
long  moments  he  did  not  move. 

A  paralysis  of  horror  was  creeping  towards  her 
heart.  He  was  taking  things  even  worse  than  she 
had  expected,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  fill  him 
with  anger  so  much  as  with  grief.  His  body  was 
crumpled  as  if  under  a  load,  and  when  he  suddenly 
dropped  his  hands  and  looked  up  at  her,  she  drew 
back  shuddering  from  what  she  saw  in  his  eyes. 

"  My  poor  boy! — I  wish  I  hadn't  told  you." 

"Oh,  God!— oh,  God!" 

Something  in  his  cowering,  hopeless  attitude 
woke  all  the  divine  motherhood  in  Janey.  She 
forgot  her  fear  of  unforgiveness,  her  danger  of  a 
rebuff,  and  put  her  arms  round  him,  drawing  his 
head  to  her  breast. 

"  My  poor  Nigel  .  .  .  my  poor,  poor  lad!  " — so 
she  comforted  him  for  the  shame  he  felt  for  her. 

After  a  time,  when  thought  was  not  quite  swal- 
lowed up  in  tenderness,  she  began  to  wonder  why 
he  let  her  hold  him  so. 

Then  suddenly  he  rose,  and  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  room — up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
swinging  round  sharply  at  the  corners,  but  always, 
she  noticed  with  a  gulp,  treading  softly  for  fear 
of  waking  Len.  She  watched  him  in  numb 
despair.  The  minutes  dragged  on.  Now  and  then 
he  put  his  hand  over  his  brow,  as  if  he  fought 
either  for  or  against  some  memory,  now  and  then 
he  bent  his  head  so  low  that  she  could  not  see  his 


VIGIL  275 

face.  She  wondered  how  much  longer  she  would 
be  able  to  endure  it. 

"  Nigel "  she  whispered  at  last. 

He  stopped  and  turned  towards  her. 

"Nigel  ..." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  For  heaven's  sake  .  .  .  don't  keep  me  in 
suspense." 

"  Suspense  about  what  ?  " 

"  Your  forgiveness." 

In  a  moment  he  was  at  her  side. 

"  Janey — if  I  thought  you  could  be  doubting 
that " 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  the  relief  was 
so  sudden  that  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  a  selfish  hound  I  am ! — wrapped  up  in 
my  own  beastly  feelings,  and  forgetting  yours. 
But  I  never  imagined  you  could  think " 

"  I  thought  .  .  .  perhaps  you  couldn't." 

"  Janey,  how  dare  you !  " 

"  When  you  got  up  and  walked  about  .  .  ." 

"  I  know — I  know.  But  that  wasn't  anger 
against  you — my  poor,  outraged,  suffering  dar- 
ling," and  he  covered  her  face  with  kisses. 

She  clung  to  him  in  a  passion  of  love  and  relief. 

"  Oh,  you're  good — you  and  Len!  " 

"  Nonsense,  Janey.  You  mustn't  talk  like  that. 
We're  not  worthy  to  tie  your  shoes — we  never  shall 
be.  How  could  you  think  we'd  turn  against  you? 
It's  him,  that  little,  loathly  cad,  that " 

"  Oh,  hush,  dear — I  can't  bear  it." 

His  rage  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  Len's, 
his  whole  body  quivered  in  the  passion  of  it.  Then 


276  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

suddenly  it  changed  unaccountably  to  grief,  and 
his  head  fell  back  against  her  shoulder,  the  eyes 
dull,  the  mouth  old  and  drawn.  She  thought  it  was 
for  her,  and  he  hugged  his  poor,  dead  secret  too 
tight  to  grant  her  the  mercy  of  disillusion. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  they  clung  together  on 
the  hearthstone,  where  cinders  fell  and  glowed, 
making  the  only  sound,  the  only  light,  in  the  room. 
Two  lost  children,  they  huddled  together  in  the 
only  warm  place  they  had  left — each  other's  arms. 

There  was  a  feeble  sigh,  a  feeble  stirring  in 
the  bed — just  as  the  first  of  the  morning  came 
between  the  curtains,  and  pointed  like  a  finger  into 
the  gloom. 

"Lenny.  .  .  ." 

Janet  and  Nigel  rose,  wearily  dropping  their  stiff 
arms  from  each  other,  and  went  over  to  the  bed. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  awake?  " 

"  Only  just  woke  up  ...  would  you  draw  back 
the  curtains?  " 

Nigel  pulled  them  back,  and  a  white  dawn 
shuddered  into  the  room. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"  About  three— can't  you  go  to  sleep  again?  " 

"  No — I've  wakened  for  good  ...  I  mean  .  .  . 
I  mean  ..." 

"What,  old  man?" 

"  I  think  I  am  going  to  die  after  all." 

"  No,  Lenny,  no.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  rather  a  come  down  .  .  .  after  saying  I 
wouldn't.  .  .  but  I  feel  so  tired." 

His  face  was  spread  over  with  a  ghastly  pallor, 


VIGIL  277 

and  something  which  Nigel  and  Janey  could  not 
exactly  define,  which  indeed  they  hardly  saw  with 
their  bodily  sight,  but  which  impressed  them 
vaguely  as  a  kind  of  film. 

"  I'm  going  to  die,"  he  repeated,  plucking  with 
cold  fingers  at  the  sheet. 

"  I'll  go  and  fetch  the  doctor,"  cried  Nigel. 

"  No  ...  I  don't  want  you  to  leave  me." 

"  But  we  must  do  something." 

"There's  nothing  to  do  ...  only  talk  to  me 
.  .  .  and  don't  let  me  get  funky." 

"  You  might  look  out  of  the  window,  Nigel,  and 
see  if  any  one's  passing,"  said  Janey. 

There  was  not  likely  to  be  any  one  at  that  hour, 
but  he  thrust  his  head  out  and  eagerly  scanned  the 
lane.  The  rain  had  stopped,  though  the  sky  was 
shagged  over  with  masses  of  cloud.  One  or  two 
stars  glimmered  wanly  above  the  woods.  It  was 
the  constellation  of  Orion,  setting. 

"  There's  no  one,"  said  Nigel,  "  nor  likely  to  be 
— I  must  go,  Len." 

"  Oh,  no  ...  don't  .  .  .  don't  leave  me  ... 
the  doctor  couldn't  do  anything.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I 
won't  die  ...  only  I  hate  the  dark." 

A  strangling  pity  seized  Nigel.  He  went  over 
to  his  brother,  and  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  taking 
his  hand. 

"  There,  there*  old  boy,  don't  worry.  We'll 
both  stay  with  you.  I'll  hold  this  hand,  and 
Janey  'ull  hold  the  other,  and  you'll  soon  get 
over  it." 

Len    lay    shivering    and    gasping.      Nigel    and 


278  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Janey  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  across  him,  and 
swallowed  their  grief. 

"  I — I  expect  it's  nothing,"  panted  Leonard. 
"  One  often  feels  low  at  this  time  of  night." 

They  leaned  upon  the  bed  each  side  of  him,  and 
suddenly  Janey  thrust  out  her  hand  and  grasped 
Nigel's  across  him. 

"  Now  we're  all  three  holding  hands,"  she  said. 

The  minutes  flew  by.  A  clock  was  ticking — > 
measuring  them  out. 

"  Kiss  me  .  .  ."  moaned  Leonard  suddenly. 

They  both  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

He  shut  his  eyes,  then  opened  them,  and  a 
strange,  piteous  resignation  was  in  their  glazing 
depths. 

"  I'm  sorry  ...  I  must  die.  .  .  .  I'm  so  tired." 

"  You  will  go  to  sleep,  Len." 

"  No  .  .  .  I'm  too  tired  ...  it  wouldn't  be 
enough." 

Janey's  tears  fell  on  his  face. 

"  Don't  cry,  Janey  .  .  .  it's — it's  all  right.  .  .  . 
Remember  me  to  the  doctor  .  .  .  and  say  my  last 
words  were  *  ninety-nine '  .  .  .  laugh,  Janey  .  .  . 
it's  a  joke." 

"  Lenny,  Lenny.  ..." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  a  faint  flush  tinted 
the  watery  sky.  A  bird  chirrupped  in  the  eaves  of 
Sparrow  Hall. 

"  Hold  my  hands  tighter,"  gasped  Len. 

They  both  gripped  tighter. 

"  And  give  my  love  to  Tottie  Coughdrop  .  .  . 
and  say  I'm  sorry  to  have  missed  her.  .  .  .  Tighter 
.  .  .  oh!  .  .  .  tighter." 


VIGIL  279 

His  breath  came  in  a  fierce,  whistling  rush,  and 
he  sat  bolt  upright,  gripping  their  hands  and 
struggling. 

"  Nigel,  fetch  the  doctor !  "  shrieked  Janey. 

But  Len  had  his  brother's  hand  in  the  agonised 
grip  of  dying. 

"  Tighter  ...  oh,  tighter.  ..." 

There  was  another  whistling  rush  of  breath,  but 
this  time  no  struggle — only  a  sigh. 

Len  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and  the  terror 
passed  suddenly  from  his  face. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID   .    .    . 

DURING  the  week  that  followed  Leonard's  death, 
there  was  a  succession  of  heavy  storms.  Chill 
sodden  winds  drove  June  from  the  fields,  and  sub- 
stituted a  bleak  mock-autumn.  Sparrow  Hall  was 
full  of  the  moaning  winds — they  sped  down  the 
passages,  and  throbbed  against  the  doors,  they 
whistled  through  cracks  and  chinks,  and  rumbled 
in  the  chimneys. 

Janey  was  in  bed  for  the  first  few  days ;  she  had 
collapsed  utterly.  The  two  blows  which  had  fallen 
on  her  almost  together  had  smitten  her  into  a  kind 
of  numbness,  in  which  she  lay,  white  and  stiff  and 
tearless,  through  the  windy  hours.  Nigel  scarcely 
ever  left  her,  and  he  scarcely  ever  spoke  to  her — 
they  just  crouched  together,  she  on  the  bed,  he 
on  a  chair  beside  it,  their  fingers  twined,  both 
dumbly  busy  with  the  problems  of  death  and 
anguish  that  had  assaulted  their  lives. 

Meantime  the  routine  of  the  house  and  farm 
remained  unbroken.  The  "  man  "  looked  after  the 
latter,  and  through  the  former  moved  a  figure  that 
seemed  strangely  out  of  place.  When  "  Tottie 
Coughdrop  "  arrived  the  morning  after  Len's  death, 
she  proved  to  be  no  more  or  less  than  a  novice 
from  St.  Margaret's  Convent,  and  finding  her 
ministrations  as  truly  needed  as  if  her  patient  had 
been  alive,  she  did  not  leave  on  finding  him  dead. 
280 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  281 

She  nursed  Janey — at  least  she  did  for  her  the 
little  that  Nigel  could  not  do;  she  dusted  and 
cooked;  she  made  Furlonger  eat,  the  stiffest  duty 
of  all.  It  used  to  hurt  Nigel  when  he  thought  how 
Len  would  have  enjoyed  seeing  him  sit  down  to 
supper  every  night  with  a  nun. 

Novice  Unity  Agnes  also  undertook  all  the 
arrangements  for  the  funeral — which  had  always 
been  a  nightmare  to  Nigel  and  Janey.  Moreover, 
the  day  before,  she  went  to  East  Grinstead  and 
bought  a  black  skirt  and  blouse  and  hat  for  Janey, 
who  but  for  her  would  never  have  thought  of  going 
into  mourning  at  all;  and  though  her  charity  was 
not  able  to  overcome  her  diffidence  and  buy  a 
mourning  suit  for  Nigel,  she  sewed  black  bands  on 
all  his  coats. 

That  was  how  it  happened  that  the  funeral  of 
Leonard  Furlonger  was  such  a  surprise  to  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Three  Counties.  The  coffin  was 
met  at  the  church  door  by  the  choir  headed  by  a 
crucifix,  and  the  service  was  read  by  a  priest  in 
a  black  cope.  There  were  hymns  too — Novice 
Unity  Agnes's  favourites,  all  about  as  appropriate 
as  "  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee  " — and  incense, 
and  a  little  collection  of  nuns,  persuaded  by  the 
kind-hearted  novice  to  swell  the  scanty  number  of 
mourners.  In  fact,  as  Nigel  remarked  bitterly,  the 
whole  thing  was  a  joke,  and  it  was  a  shame  Len 
had  missed  it. 

He  and  Janey  walked  home  alone,  arm  in  arm, 
through  the  wet  lanes.  As  usual,  they  did  not 
speak,  but  they  strained  close  together  as  the  soli- 
tude of  the  fields  crept  round  them.  The  rain  had 


282  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

cleared,  but  the  wind  was  still  romping  in  the 
hedges — -little  tearful  spreads  of  sky  showed  among 
the  clouds,  very  pale  and  rain-washed,  soon 
swallowed  up  by  moving  shapes  of  storm. 

Janet  went  to  bed  early.  She  had  suddenly 
found  that  she  could  sleep,  and  her  appetite  for 
sleep  became  abnormal.  She  woke  each  morning 
greedily  counting  the  hours  till  night.  In  the  old 
careless  days  she  had  never  set  such  store  on  sleep, 
because  it  had  meant  merely  strengthening  and 
resting  and  refreshing;  now  it  meant  what  was 
more  to  her  than  anything  else  in  life — forgetting. 

Nigel  could  not  sleep.  In  his  heart  the  lights 
were  not  yet  all  put  out.  There  were  flashes  of 
terror  and  sparks  of  desire,  and  dull  flares  of  con- 
jecture. He  had  sometimes  hesitated  whether  he 
should  tell  Janey  his  secret,  but  had  drawn  back  on 
each  occasion,  urged  partly  by  the  thought  of 
adding  to  her  burden,  but  principally  by  a  feeling 
of  shame.  His  wonderful  dream,  which  had 
sustained  him  so  triumphantly  during  six  months 
of  work  and  sacrifice,  had  now  shrivelled  into  a 
poor  little  secret,  such  as  school-girls  nurture — a 
love  which  must  always  be  hidden  and  silent  and 
unconsummated. 

His  brain  ached  with  regrets  and  revisualisa- 
tions,  quaked  with  apprehension  and  the  knowledge 
of  his  own  utter  helplessness  in  the  face  of  circum- 
stances. The  thought  of  Lowe's  perfidy  to  Janet 
would  rouse  in  him  a  sweat  of  rage  from  his  poor 
attempts  at  sleep.  Janey  stood  to  Nigel  for  all 
that  was  noble,  meek  and  understanding,  and  that 
she  should  be  treated  heartlessly  and  lightly  by  a 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  283 

scoundrel  not  worthy  to  black  her  boots,  was  a 
thought  that  drove  him  nearly  rabid  with  hate. 
What  was  he  to  do  to  save  Tony  from  this  swine? 
He  knew  perfectly  well  how  she  would  look  upon 
him  if  she  heard  his  story.  He  remembered  the 
hard,  stiff  little  figure  in  the  garden  of  Shovel- 
strode — "  You  won  my  friendship  under  false 
pretences."  What  would  she  say  to  the  cad  who 
had  won  by  false  pretences  not  only  her  friendship 
but  her  body,  her  heart  and  her  soul  ?  Yet  he  could 
never  tell  her  the  truth.  He  would  not  betray  Janet 
even  to  this  girl  he  loved,  and  a  vague  accusation 
could  easily  be  denied  by  Lowe,  and  was  not  likely 
to  be  believed  by  Tony. 

Often  he  envied  Len — lost  in  cool  sleep,  free 
from  responsibilities  and  problems,  eased  for 
ever  from  the  soul-chafing  burdens  of  hate  and 
love. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  July.  Sunshine  baked 
on  the  fields,  and  drank  the  green  out  of  the  grass, 
so  that  the  fields  were  brown,  with  splashes  of 
yellow  where  the  buttercups  still  grew.  In  the 
hedges  the  wild  elder-rose  sent  out  its  sickening 
sweetness,  while  from  the  ditches  came  the  even 
more  cloying  fragrance  of  the  meadowsweet.  The 
haze  of  a  great  heat  veiled  the  distance  from  Nigel, 
as  he  tramped  over  the  parched  grass  into  Kent. 
He  saw  the  roofs  of  Scarlets  and  Redpale  shimmer- 
ing in  the  valley  of  the  hammer  ponds,  but  beyond 
them  was  a  fiery,  thundering  dusk,  which  swallowed 
up  the  hills  of  Cowden  in  the  east. 

He  walked  with  bent  head  and  arms  slack.    He 


284  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

often  took  these  lonely  walks,,  undaunted  by  either 
storm  or  swelter.  He  knew  that  Janey  missed  him, 
but  he  could  not  keep  his  body  still  while  his  mind 
ran  to  and  fro  so  desperately. 

His  walks  were  full  of  dark  and  furious  plan- 
ning, of  schemes  that  came  to  nothing.  He 
roamed  aimlessly  through  the  country,  without 
noticing  where  he  went — except  that  he  half  un- 
consciously avoided  the  roads  and  wider  lanes. 
He  was  desperate  because  his  brain  worked  so 
slowly,  a  cloud  seemed  to  lie  on  it,  and  he  had  a 
tendency  to  lose  the  thread  of  his  ideas  after  he 
had  followed  them  a  little  way. 

This  afternoon  he  was  wandering  towards  the 
valley  of  the  hammer  ponds.  It  was  nearly  seven 
when  he  came  to  Furnace  Wood.  The  sun  was 
swimming  to  the  west  through  whorls  of  heat.  A 
sullen  glow  crawled  over  the  sky,  nearly  brown  in 
the  west.  The  air  hung  heavy  in  the  wood,  laden 
with  the  pungency  of  midsummer  flowers  and 
grasses — scarcely  a  leaf  stirred,  though  now  and 
then  an  unaccountable  rustling  shudder  passed 
through  the  thickets. 

Weariness  dropped  on  Nigel  like  a  cloak — he 
was  used  to  it.  It  was  not  really  physical,  only 
the  deadly  striving  of  his  soul  reaching  out  to  his 
body  and  exhausting  it.  He  flung  himself  down 
in  a  clump  of  bracken  and  tansy,  sinking  down 
in  it,  till  everything  was  shut  out  by  the  tall,  earth- 
smelling  stalks.  This  was  what  he  often  found 
himself  longing  for  with  a  desperate  physical 
desire — a  little  corner,  cool  and  quiet  and  green, 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  285 

shut  off  from  life,  where  he  could  drowse — and 
forget. 

This  evening  only  the  first  part  of  his  desire  was 
satisfied.  He  had  his  corner,  but  he  could  not 
drowse  in  it.  His  limbs  lay  inert,  but  his  thoughts 
kicked  painfully.  His  brain  hammered  with  old 
impressions,  which,  instead  of  wearing  away  with 
time,  each  day  bored  and  jarred  with  renewed 
power.  He  was  the  victim  of  an  abnormally  acute 
mentality — just  as  to  a  swollen  limb  the  lightest 
touch  is  painful,  so  to  Nigel's  brain,  inflamed  with 
grief  and  struggle,  every  impression  was  like  a 
blow,  an  enduring  source  of  agony. 

He  heard  footsteps  on  the  path.  No  one  could 
see  him — it  was  still  quite  light  in  the  fields,  but 
in  the  wood  was  dusk  and  a  blurring  of  outlines; 
besides,  he  was  deeply  buried  in  the  tall  stalks. 
However,  though  he  could  not  be  seen,  he  could 
see,  for  on  the  path  stood  a  golden  pillar  of  sun- 
shine into  which  the  footsteps  must  pass.  Nigel 
wondered  if  it  could  be  Lowe,  returning  early  for 
some  reason  from  Shovelstrode.  But  the  steps  did 
not  sound  heavy  enough,  and  the  next  minute  he 
saw  the  white  of  a  woman's  dress  through  the  trees. 
In  an  instant  his  limbs  had  shrunk  together,  for 
another  of  those  sickening  blows  had  smitten  his 
brain.  The  figure  had  passed  out  of  the  pillar 
of  sunset,  but  he  had  seen  Tony  Strife  as  she 
went  by. 

She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  wore  no  hat,  only 
a  muslin  scarf  over  her  hair.  She  carried  a  cloak 
on  her  arm,  and  Furlonger  realised  that  she  must 
be  going  to  dine  at  Redpale.  The  sight  of  Tony 


286  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

— he  had  not  seen  her  since  he  lost  her,  or  rather 
his  dream  of  her — threw  him  into  a  fit  of  tor- 
ment. He  flung  himself  back  among  the  stalks, 
and  rolled  there,  biting  them,  suddenly  mad  with 
pain. 

The  next  moment  he  started  up.  A  thud  and  a 
low  cry  came  from  a  few  yards  further  on. 

Nigel  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  remembered  that 
not  far  off  the  path  ran  by  the  mouth  of  a  disused 
chalk  quarry,  from  which  it  was  divided  only  by 
a  very  rickety  fence.  Suppose  .  .  .  He  crashed 
through  the  bushes  to  the  path,  and  dashed  along 
it  to  the  chalk-pit.  Something  white  lay  only  a 
few  feet  from  the  dreadful  brink. 

Just  here  the  path  was  in  darkness — hazel  bushes 
and  a  dense  thicket  of  alder  shut  out  the  sun. 
For  a  moment  he  could  not  make  out  clearly 
what  had  happened,  but  was  immediately  reassured 
by  seeing  Tony  sit  up,  and  try  to  struggle  to  her 
feet. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried,  hearing  his  steps  behind 
her.  "Who's  there?" 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Furlonger  .  .  ." 

She  made  another  struggle  to  rise,  but  could  not 
without  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  hurt?  "  he  repeated. 

"  No-o-o." 

"  I  think  you  are  a  little." 

He  was  trembling  all  over,  and  hoped  she  did  not 
notice  it. 

"  I  fell  over  some  wire,  just  here,  where  the  path 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  287 

is  so  dark.  I  might  have  gone  over  the  edge,"  she 
added  with  a  shudder. 

"  You  had  a  lucky  escape — but  I'm  afraid  you're 
hurt." 

"  It  isn't  much.  I  may  have  twisted  my  ankle  a 
bit,  that's  all." 

She  stood  there  in  the  shadows,  her  white  dress 
gleaming  like  a  moth,  her  face  mysterious  in  the 
disarray  of  her  wrap.  Nigel's  eyes  devoured  her, 
while  his  heart  filled  itself  with  inexpressible 
pain. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  he  said  huskily,  "  and  I'll  help 
you  back  to  Shovelstrode." 

"Oh,  no! — I'll  go  on  to  Redpale.  It's  much 
nearer — if  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  help  me." 

"'But  how  about  getting  home?  " 

"  My  fiance,  Mr.  Lowe,  will  drive  me  home.  He 
was  to  have  fetched  me  too,  but  at  the  last  moment 
he  had  to  go  up  to  town,  and  couldn't  be  back  in 
time." 

"  Are  you  sure  you're  well  enough  to  go  out  to 
dinner  ? "  He  hated  the  idea  of  taking  her  to 
Redpale. 

"  Oh,  quite — this  is  nothing.  Besides,  dining  at 
Redpale  is  just  like  dining  at  home — I  don't  call 
it  going  '  out '  to  dinner." 

Furlonger  winced,  and  gave  her  his  arm,  hoping 
she  would  not  notice  how  it  shook. 

They  walked  slowly  out  of  Furnace  Wood, 
towards  the  leaden  east.  Tony  limped  slightly, 
and  Nigel  wanted  to  carry  her,  but  he  dared  not  risk 
his  patched  self-control  too  far. 

"  You   should   never   have   come   all   this    way 


288  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

alone,"  he  said  gruffly,  "these  woods  by  the 
quarries  are  dangerous." 

"  I  expect  my  father  will  be  furious  when  he  finds 
out  what  I've  done.  But  I  hoped  that  if  I  walked 
across  the  fields,  instead  of  driving  round  by  the 
road,  I — I  might  meet  my  fiance  on  his  way  home 
from  the  station." 

A  tremulous  archness  crept  into  her  voice.  Nigel 
shuddered. 

"  I'm  pleased  I  met  you,"  she  said  gently,  after 
a  pause,  "  because  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  dread- 
fully sorry  I  am  about  your  brother." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I'm  so  glad  about 
your  success  in  London.  I  saw  in  the  papers  how 
you  distinguished  yourself  at  Herr  von  Gleich- 
roeder's  concert." 

Nigel  did  not  speak. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  soon  be  going  back  to  town? " 
she  went  on  timidly. 

"  I  don't  know.    I  can't  leave  my  sister." 

"  But  you  can  take  her  with  you.  It  would  be 
a  pity  to  throw  up  your  career  just  when  everything 
looks  so  promising." 

They  were  not  far  from  Redpale  now.  The  sun- 
set was  creeping  over  the  sky — only  the  east  before 
them  was  dark,  banked  high  with  thundery 
vapour.  Nigel  could  still  hear  Tony  speaking,  as 
if  in  a  kind  of  dream.  His  thoughts  were  busy 
elsewhere. 

"  Won't  you  ?  "  repeated  Tony  for  the  second 
time. 

"Won't  I  what?" 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  289 

"  Go  back  to  London,  and  make  yourself 
famous." 

"  I  don't  see  much  chance  of  that." 

"  But  I  do — and  so  will  you  when  you're  not  so 
unhappy.  Now,  to  please  me,  won't  you  promise 
to  go  back  to  London  and  make  yourself  a  great 
career?  You  and  I  used  to  be  friends  once — I 
hope  we're  friends  still — and  I  shall  always  be 
interested  in  everything  you  do.  I  expect  to  see 
your  name  in  a  very  high  place  some  day.  Now, 
for  my  sake,  promise  to  go  back." 

"  For  your  sake.  ..." 

"  Yes — since  you  won't  go  for  your  own." 

They  had  stopped  a  moment  to  rest  her  foot. 
Nigel  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  grass  and  looked 
into  hers — wondering.  Was  it  true,  was  it  even 
possible,  that  she  had  never  seen  his  love?  She 
could  not,  or  she  would  not  speak  like  this — "  For 
my  sake."  After  all,  she  would  never  expect  him 
to  dare  .  .  .  that  would  blind  her  to  much  that 
might  have  betrayed  him  had  he  been  worthier.  No, 
she  had  not  seen  his  love,  and  she  had  never 
loved  him.  She  had  never  loved  any  man  but 
Quentin  Lowe — he  was  her  first  love,  he  had  lit  the 
first  flame  in  her  heart,  and  that  heart  was  his,  in 
all  its  purity  and  burning. 

Standing  there  beside  her  in  the  sunset,  her 
weight  resting  deliciously  on  him  as  she  raised 
her  injured  foot  from  the  ground,  he  realised  the 
change  that  had  come  to  Tony.  Her  manner  was 
as  entirely  different  from  her  manner  of  six  months 
ago  at  Shovelstrode  as  that  had  been  different  from 
the  manner  of  those  still  earlier  days  at  Lingfield 
19 


290  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

or  Brambletye.  In  those  days,  during  their  play- 
time, Tony  had  been  a  school-girl,  a  delightful 
hoyden,  the  best  pal  and  fellow-adventurer  a  man 
could  have.  In  December,  in  the  garden  at  Shovel- 
strode,  she  had  lost  that  valiant  girlhood,  and  at 
the  same  time  her  womanhood  was  unripe — she 
had  been  a  crude  mixture  of  girl  and  woman, 
sometimes  provokingly  both,  sometimes  repellingly 
neither.  But  to-day  she  was  woman  complete. 
Both  her  mind  and  her  body  seemed  to  have 
stepped  out  of  their  green  adolescence.  There  was 
a  certain  dignity  of  curve  about  the  tall  figure 
resting  against  him,  which  Nigel  had  not  seen  in 
the  forest  or  in  the  garden;  there  was  a  clear  and 
confident  look  in  the  eyes  which  in  earlier  days 
had  been  either  wistful  or  timid ;  there  was  a  height- 
ened colour  on  the  cheeks.  Her  manner  was  full 
of  gentle  assurance,  her  speech  easy  and  sympa- 
thetic— as  utterly  different  from  the  crude  tact- 
lessness of  Christmastide  as  from  the  school-girl 
rattle  of  November. 

Yes,  Tony  was  a  woman  come  into  her  kingdom, 
proud,  sweet,  compassionate  and  strong.  Quentin 
Lowe  had  made  her  this  in  the  short  weeks  of  his 
love.  Unworthy  little  cad  as  he  was,  he  had  yet 
been  able  to  raise  her  from  girlhood  to  woman- 
hood, to  crown  her  with  the  diadem  of  her 
heritage.  .  .  . 

"  Tony,"  cried  Nigel,  caught  in  a  sudden  storm 
of  impulse,  "  do  you  love  Quentin  Lowe?  " 

"Love  him! — why,  of  course.  .  .  .  Let's  move 
on." 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  291 

"  You're  not  angry  with  me? — I  have  my  reason 
for  asking." 

"  No,  I'm  not  angry.  But  what  reason  can  you 
have?" 

"  I  remember,"  said  Nigel  desperately,  "  what  you 
told  me  six  months  ago.  You  said  you  couldn't 
forgive.  ..." 

The  colour  rushed  to  his  face,  but  he  fought 
on. 

"  There  is  something  which  I  think  you  ought  to 
know  about  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

She  spoke  sharply,  but  not  quite  so  sharply  as 
he  had  expected. 

"Miss  Strife — it's  very  difficult  for  me  ...  but 
I  think  I  ought " 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  her  voice  faltering  a  little, 
"  you're  trying  to  tell  me — you  think  you  ought  to 
tell  me — that  Quentin  hasn't  always  been  quite — 
quite  worthy  of  himself.  I  know." 

"You  know!" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  silence,  broken  only  by  the  swish  of 
their  footsteps  through  the  grass. 

"  How  did  you  know  ? — Who  told  you  ?  "  cried 
Furlonger  suddenly. 

"  I  might  ask — how  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  The  girl — was  a  friend  of  mine.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry." 

"  Don't  mistake  me.  I — I  didn't  love  her — not 
in  that  way,  I  mean.  But,  Tony — who  told  you  ?  " 

"  Quentin." 

"My  God!" 


292  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"  Why  are  you  so  surprised  ?  It  was  right  that 
he  should  tell  me." 

"Of  course.    But  I— I  didn't  think  he  would." 

Tony  hesitated  a  moment — it  struck  Nigel  that 
she  was  considering  how  far  she  ought  to  take 
him  into  her  confidence.  The  thought  humiliated 
him. 

"  He  did  tell  me,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "  he 
told  me  everything,  one  night,  nearly  three  weeks 
ago,  just  before  your  brother  died.  He  suddenly 
came  to  Shovelstrode — very  late,  after  we  had  all 
gone  upstairs.  He  wanted  to  see  me-^and  I  came 
down  .  .  .  oh,  I  shall  never  forget  it!  He  was 
standing  there,  all  white  and  tired — and  very  wet, 
as  if  he'd  been  lying  in  the  grass.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  he  couldn't — and  I  was  frightened,  like 
a  silly  ass,  and  I  cried  .  .  .  and  then  he  told  me 
all  about  himself — and  this  girl." 

"And  you?  .  .  ." 

She  shuddered. 

"  I — I  told  him  he  must  go." 

"You  told  him  to  go !  " — his  voice  had  a  hungry 
catch  in  it. 

"  Yes— I  was  a  beast." 

Anxiety  and  scorn  strove  together  in  him. 

"  But  you  changed  your  mind." 

She  nodded. 

"Tony!" 

"Well,  why  not?" 

"  Because  it's  paltry  and  weak  of  you — he 
doesn't  deserve  your  forgiveness — and  you've  no 
right  to  forgive  him  for  what  he  did  to  another 
woman." 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  293 

"  Do  you  think  I  haven't  considered  that  other 
woman?  " 

"  You  must  have.  But — egad ! — you're  so  calm 
about  it.  Don't  you  realise  what  all  this  means — 
to  her?" 

"  You  think  I  ought  to  make  him  marry  her?  " 

"  Of  course  not — she  wouldn't  have  him  if  she 
was  paid.  But — but  how  can  you  marry  him, 
Tony?" 

She  bit  her  lip. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  put  things  so  bluntly,  but  I'm 
always  a  blundering  ass  when  I'm  excited.  Tony, 
you're  not  to  marry  this  man." 

By  her  mounting  colour  he  saw  that  he  had  said 
too  much. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I  know  all  this  sounds  like 
impertinent  interference.  But  it  isn't.  I've  been 
worrying  about  it  a  lot — about  your  marrying  him. 
I  felt  you  ought  to  know.  ..." 

"  Well,  I  do  know — and  I've  forgiven  him." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  isn't  even  worse  than  your  not 
knowing." 

She  stared  at  him  in  anger  and  surprise. 

"  You  say  that ! — you ! — the  man  but  for  whom 
perhaps  I  never  should  have  forgiven  him." 

Nigel  gasped.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Well,  at  first,  as  I  told  you,  I  felt  I  couldn't 
forgive  him.  But  afterwards  I  remembered  all  you 
said." 

"/said!" 

"  Yes." 

"What?— When?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  that  day  you  came  over  to 


294  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

Shovelstrode  and  said,  '  You  will  have  to  forgive 
me  a  great  many  things  because  I  am  so  very 
hungry'?" 

They  had  stopped  again;  the  fields  swelled  round 
them,  ghostly  in  the  lemon  twilight,  and  a  wistful 
radiance  glowed  on  Tony's  face.  He  searched  her 
eyes  despairingly — he  scarcely  knew  what  for.  The 
anger  in  them  had  died,  and  in  its  place  was  a 
beautiful  serenity  and  kindliness.  But  that  was 
not  what  he  was  looking  for.  His  heart  was  full 
of  hunger  and  tears,  yet  he  did  not  hunger  or  cry 
for  the  woman  who  stood  before  him,  but  for  the 
little  girl  he  had  known  long  months  ago. 

"  Quentin  used  almost  the  same  words  as  you 
did,"  she  said,  breaking  the  silence,  "  he  told  me 
how  all  his  life  he  had  been  hungry,  always  craving 
for  something  good  and  pure  and  satisfying,  never 
able  to  reach  it.  Then  he  met  this  girl,  and  he 
thought  that  he'd  find  in  her  all  he  was  seeking. 
But  he  found  only  sorrow — sorrow  for  them  both. 
He  was  in  despair,  in  hell — and  he  believed  I  could 
help  him  out  and  make  him  a  good  man  again. 
Don't  you  remember  how  you  said  that  a  man's  only 
chance  of  rising  out  of  the  mud  was  for  some  woman 
to  give  him  a  hand  and  help  him  up  ?  " 

Nigel  could  not  find  words.  A  thick,  misty 
horror  was  settling  on  him.  Had  those  poor 
pleadings  of  his  dying  self  then  turned  against  him 
in  his  hour  of  need? 

"  There  was  Quentin  asking  for  my  help,"  con- 
tinued Tony.  "  Oh,  I  know  I'm  no  better  than 
other  girls,  than  the  girl  he  used  to  love,  but  some- 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  295 

how  I  can't  help  feeling  I'm  the  girl  sent  to  help 
Quentin.  When  I  told  him  he  must  go,  he  nearly 
went  crazy  .  .  .  his  father  said  he  was  afraid  he 
would  kill  himself  .  .  .  and  I — I  was  nearly  mad 
too,  for  I — oh,  God!  I  loved  him." 

A  sounding  contralto  note  swept  into  her  voice; 
it  seemed  to  swell  up  from  her  heart,  from  her 
heaving  woman's  breast  on  which  her  hands  were 
folded. 

"  So  I  forgave  him." 

"  Tony !  .  .  ."  cried  Nigel  faintly. 

"  Yes — I'm  grateful  to  you.  I'm  afraid  that 
when  I  saw  you  at  Shovelstrode  I  was  very  stupid 
and  stiff — I  was  a  horrid  little  beast,  and  I  couldn't 
forgive  you  for  what  was  after  all  an  honour  you 
had  done  me.  Now  I  see  how  much  your  friend- 
ship meant  to  me.  But  for  you,  Quentin  and  I 
might  have  been  parted  for  ever." 

A  stupid  rage  was  tearing  Furlonger,  and  there 
was  a  mockery  of  laughter  in  it.  He  saw  that  his 
tragedy  was  after  all  only  a  farce — he  was  the  time- 
honoured  lover  of  farce,  who  with  infinite  pains 
makes  a  ladder  to  his  lady's  chamber,  and  then 
sees  his  rival  swarm  up  it.  There  he  stood,  for- 
lorn, discomfited,  frustrated — but  also  intensely 
comic.  Perhaps  the  student  was  right  about 
Offenbach.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  surprised  that  you  should  be  so  disgusted 
with  me,"  said  Tony. 

The  ghostly  laughter  pealed  again,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  remembered  that  "  if  the  man's  a  sport,  he 
laughs  too."  He  threw  back  his  head,  and  startled 
her  with  a  hearty  laugh. 


296  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

"Mr.  Furlonger!" 

"I'm  sorry — but  things  struck  me  suddenly  as 
rather  funny." 

"How?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  they'd  strike  you  the  same 
way.  But  it  seems  funny  you  should  care  whether 
I'm  disgusted  or  not." 

"  I  do — of  course  I  do ;  and  I  can't  see  why  you 
are  disgusted.  After  all  you  said  ..." 

"  Damn  all  I  said ! — I'm  sorry,  but  I  never 
thought  of  a  case  like  this."  He  blushed,  remem- 
bering the  case  he  had  thought  of. 

They  walked  down  the  hill — they  could  see  Red- 
pale  now,  huddling  beneath  them  in  its  orchards. 
The  colours  of  the  sunset  had  grown  fainter,  and 
pale,  trembling  lights  burned  on  the  barn-roofs 
and  the  pond. 

Their  feet  beat  swiftly  on  the  rustling  grass. 
Furlonger's  time  was  short. 

"  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  a  big  woman,"  said 
Tony  softly,  "  a  strong,  brave  woman ;  and  I  don't 
want  to  think  sentimental  rot  about  a  perfect  knight 
and  a  spotless  hero  and  all  that.  I  want  to  be  a 
man's  righting  comrade — I  want  to  feel  he  can't 
do  without  me.  It  was  you  who  first  told  me  that 
I  must  take  men  as  I  find  them — but  not  leave 
them  so." 

"  Tony,  if  only  I  thought  there  was  any  good  in 
him " 

"  I  tell  you  there's  a  mine  of  good  in  him.  But 
he's  never  had  a  chance  till  now.  Our  engage- 
ment is  to  be  a  very  long  one,  and  already  I  can 
see  a  difference  in  him.  It's  not  I  that  have  done 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  297 

it — it's  his  love  for  me.  And  all  the  sorrow  he 
went  through,  when  he  thought  he'd  lost  me, 
seems  to  have  made  him  gentler  and  humbler  some- 
how. Quentin  has  suffered  dreadfully  " — there  was 
a  little  click  in  her  throat — "  and  he  wants  so  much 
to  be  good  and  pure  and  true.  And  I've  promised 
to  help  him,  by  believing  that  he  can  and  will  do 
better." 

His  own  words  were  being  mercilessly  fired 
back  at  him.  He  remembered  how  he  had  first 
breathed  them  to  her,  full  of  hope  and  entreaty. 
In  the  face  of  such  artillery  his  rout  was 
complete. 

"  Forgive  him,  Tony !  "  he  cried.  "  Forgive 
him !  But  oh,  forgive  me,  too !  " 

They  had  reached  the  gate  of  Redpale  Farm. 
He  stopped — he  would  go  no  further. 

"  Tony — forgive  me  too." 

The  words  broke  from  his  lips  in  an  exceeding 
bitter  cry. 

"  Forgive  you ! — what  for  ?  " 

"  For  a  great  deal — for  all  you  know  of,  and  for 
the  more  you  don't  know." 

"Of  course  I  forgive  you — but  I  thank  you 
most." 

"  No,  you  must  forgive  me  most — are  you  sure 
that  you  forgive  me  for  what  you  don't  know  as 
well  as  for  what  you  know  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure  " — her  voice  trembled  a  little,  for  he 
was  beginning  to  frighten  her. 

"  Then  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye.  I — I  hope  I  haven't  brought  you 
very  far  out  of  your  way." 


298  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

He  muttered  something  unintelligible,  pulled  off 
his  cap,  and  left  her. 

He  walked  quickly,  pricked  on  by  a  discovery 
which  was  also  a  triumph.  Quentin  Lowe  had  not 
taken  Tony  from  him  after  all.  The  Tony  he 
loved  had  never  known  Quentin  Lowe,  she  had 
been  no  man's  friend  but  Nigel  Furlonger's — and 
so  much  his  friend  that  when  he  had  been  taken 
from  her  she  would  not  stay  without  him,  but 
herself  had  gone  away.  Quentin  Lowe  loved  a 
beautiful  woman — proud  and  sweet  and  assured, 
with  just  a  dash  of  the  prig  about  her.  Nigel  had 
never  loved  this  woman,  he  had  loved  a  little  girl 
— and  the  little  girl  who  had  been  his  comrade  in 
the  Kentish  lanes  and  the  ruins  of  Brambletye, 
would  never  be  any  man's  but  his. 

He  plunged  recklessly  through  the  fields,  and 
recklessly  into  Furnace  Wood.  Lowe  could  not  be 
far  off.  He  must  have  missed  the  fast  train  from 
Victoria,  but  the  next  one  arrived  only  an  hour 
or  so  later.  Nigel  hurried  through  the  wood,  now 
coal  dark,  and  full  of  a  strange  dread  for  him — 
though  he  did  not  know  of  the  ghosts  which 
haunted  it.  As  he  caught  his  first  glimpse  of  the 
faintly  crimsoned  west,  he  saw  a  figure  outlined 
against  it.  Some  one  was  coming  down  the  slope 
of  Furnace  Field.  It  must  be  Lowe. 

The  two  men  met  on  the  rim  of  the  wood.  It 
was  a  moment  of  blackness  for  Quentin  when  he 
saw  the  blazing  eyes  and  bitten  lips  of  Furlonger. 
Strange  words  broke  from  his  tongue — 

"  Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine  enemy !  " 


AND  YOU  ALSO  SAID  299 

Nigel's  great  body  towered  over  him.  His  lips 
had  shrunk  back  from  his  teeth,  which  gleamed 
in  the  dying  ugly  light.  Lowe  remembered  the 
other  Furlonger  who  was  dead.  In  Furnace  Wood 
fate  would  not  tamper  with  vengeance  as  at 
Cowsanish. 

Suddenly  Nigel  spoke. 

"  Two  good  women  have  forgiven  you — so  I've 
nothing  to  say — or  do.  Pass " 

He  moved  out  of  the  path,  and  waved  his  hand 
towards  the  wood. 

"  Pass "  he  said. 

Quentin  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Won't — won't  you  shake  hands  ?  " 

"  No.    Pass — and  for  God's  sake,  pass  quickly." 


CHAPTER  X 

A  TOAST 

A  FEW  faint  stars  were  in  the  west  as  Migel 
tramped  towards  it.  They  seemed  to  swim  up  out 
of  the  eddies  of  crimson  fog  that  floated  there — 
they  seemed  to  be  showing  little  candles  of  hope  to 
the  man  who  turned  his  back  on  the  east.  The 
castle  of  the  day  spring  lay  behind  him,  swallowed 
in  thundery  murk,  but  before  him  were  the  lights 
of  a  broader  palace  where  dead  hopes  and  dead 
hatreds  keep  state  together. 

The  west  glowed  and  trembled  and  purpled — 
fiery  rays  rested  on  the  woods,  and  reached  over 
the  sky  to  the  moon.  Then  against  the  purple 
showed  a  tall  chimney,  rising  from  a  high-roofed 
cottage  that  squatted  in  the  fields  of  Wilder  wick. 

As  Nigel  walked  down  the  hill  towards  Sparrow 
Hall,  a  great  quickening  realisation  struck  his 
exhausted  heart.  He  knew  that  his  dream  was  not 
dead.  Tony,  the  light  in  which  he  had  seen  it, 
was  gone  for  ever,  but  the  dream  itself  was  still 
there  in  the  dark.  For  six  months  he  had  tried  to 
lead  a  good  and  honourable  life,  and  now,  though 
the  motive  was  gone,  the  old  desire  remained  as 
strong  and  white  as  ever.  He  could  never  be  as 
he  had  been  before  he  met  Tony.  He  knew  now 
that  it  was  not  she  that  had  called  him — she  had 
merely  opened  his  ears  to  a  voice  that  had  been 
calling  him  all  through  his  life,  through  struggle, 
lust  and  pain,  failure  and  hate — and  was  calling 
300 


A  TOAST  301 

him  still,  through  the  utter  darkness.  The  child 
in  him,  which  had  desperately  sought  congenial 
comradeship  in  a  little  girl,  rose  out  of  the  wreck, 
and  heard  as  in  a  dream  the  voices  of  boys  and 
girls  in  London,  laughing,  fooling  and  ragging 
together,  calling  to  all  in  him  that  was  gay  and 
young  and  outrageous.  He  wanted  to  go  back  to 
London,  he  wanted  to  play  and  to  work,  and  to 
win  for  himself  what  he  had  once  yearned  to  win 
for  Tony.  His  music,  that  one  touch  of  the  poetic 
and  supernatural  in  his  sordid,  materialistic  life, 
would  raise  him  up  in  this  his  Last  Day,  and  give 
him  his  heart's  desire — his  desire  for  a  clean  life  and 
an  honourable  name. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  great  lonely  field — 
the  last  of  the  sun  and  the  first  of  the  moon  upon 
him,  around  him  the  dawning  eternity  of  the  stars. 
Two  hours  ago  he  had  been  festering,  sick,  with 
his  schemes,  the  comrade  of  a  hundred  repulsive 
ideas.  Now  he  was  alone — utterly  alone  with  his 
one  great  ambition,  stripped  of  the  last  rag  of 
personal  motive  that  had  clung  to  it — his  ambition 
to  be  honest  and  pure  and  true. 

Tony  had  pointed  him  out  the  way,  and  directly 
he  had  taken  it,  she  had  gone — to  show  it  to  another 
man,  and  walk  in  it  with  him.  Nigel  suddenly 
pictured  that  man.  He  was  at  Redpale  Farm  .  .  . 
he  kneeled  in  the  dust  at  Tony's  feet  .  .  .  her 
hands  were  upon  his  head.  In  her  he  found 
redemption,  love  and  blessing — and  dared  he, 
Furlonger,  grudge  redemption,  love  and  blessing 
to  any  man?  He  did  not  grudge  them — let 
Quentin  Lowe  take  them,  walk  in  white  with  Tony, 


80S  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

and  be  worthy  of  her.  Furlonger,  too,  would 
walk  in  white  and  be  worthy — but  he  would  walk 
alone. 

No,  not  quite  alone.  He  trod  softly  up  the  path 
to  Sparrow  Hall,  between  the  ranks  of  the  folded 
flowers.  The  evening  primroses  and  night-scented 
stock  sent  their  fragrance  in  with  him  at  the  door. 
The  house  was  in  darkness,  and  he  groped  his  way 
to  the  kitchen,  where  he  found  Janey. 

She  was  half  asleep  in  the  armchair  by  the  fire — 
she  had  laid  the  supper,  that  dreary  little  supper 
for  two,  and  now  lay  huddled  by  the  dying  embers, 
cold,  in  spite  of  the  thick  heat  of  the  night. 

"  Janey,"  whispered  Nigel,  as  he  kissed  her. 

She  started. 

"  Oh,  you're  back  at  last ! — what  a  time  you've 
been!" 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear.  Come  now,  I'll  light  the 
lamp,  and  we'll  have  supper." 

She  rose  listlessly,  and  sat  down  opposite  him. 

"  It's  a  rotten  supper — I  don't  cook  so  well  as 
Novice  Unity  Agnes." 

"  Nonsense !  you  cook  quite  well  enough  for  me. 
Janey — will  you  come  and  cook  for  me  in 
London?" 

"  In  London?  " — she  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  back  to  my  work — and  I  can't 
leave  you  here." 

"  But — but — I  don't  understand — and  what  shall 
we  do  about  the  farm  ?  " 

"  We  can  sell  it,  and  the  money  will  keep  us — 
just  the  two  of  us  in  a  workman's  flat — till  my 
training  is  over,  and  I'm  earning  money  on  my 


A  TOAST  303 

own.  Oh,  Janey,  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  be  rich 
or  famous  or  that  I'll  fill  the  Albert  Hall — but  I — 
I  shall  be  more  worthy  of  you,  dear." 

"Of  me!"— she  laughed. 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  understand  ?  I've  got  my 
dream  back  again — but  there's  an  empty  place  in 
it  ...  Will  you  fill  it,  Janey?" 

She  looked  questioningly  at  him  with  her  great 
haggard  eyes. 

"Who  left  it  empty?" 

"  Tony  Strife,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Nigel!  .  .  ." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  came  to  him. 

"  My  poor,  poor  boy." 

Her  pity,  the  first  he  had  received,  had  an  un- 
expected effect  on  him.  It  nearly  unmanned  him 
— he  put  up  his  hands  to  her  neck,  and  drew  down 
her  face  to  him,  while  his  body  shuddered. 

"Nigel  .  .  .  did  she  know?" 

"No,  never— thank  God!" 

She  stroked  his  hair,  and  held  his  head  against 
her  breast. 

"  It  was  a  hopeless  dream,  Janey." 

She  could  not  contradict  him. 

"  But  it  helped  me." 

"  Then  it  was  a  good  dream." 

He  gently  slipped  himself  free. 

"  And  now  we'll  say  no  more  about  it." 

After  supper  Janey  asked  Nigel  to  play  to  her. 
He  often  used  to  play  to  her  in  the  evenings,  to 
relieve  the  aching  weight  of  agony  that  gathered 
on  her  with  the  dusk.  She  lay  back  in  the  arm- 
chair, her  eyes  closed,  wondering  why  Nigel's 


304  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

music,  which  she  had  used  sometimes  to  hate, 
soothed  her  so  inexpressibly  now.  She  always 
asked  him  to  play  when  she  felt  her  heart  was 
becoming  hard — music  seemed  to  melt  down  that 
stony  sense  of  outrage  which  sometimes  grew  like 
a  cancer  into  her  thoughts.  She  would  not,  dared 
not,  have  a  hard  heart,  and  music  was  the  only 
thing  at  present  that  could  keep  it  soft. 

She  thought  with  gathering  tears  of  the  confes- 
sion her  brother  had  just  made  her,  but  she  would 
not  let  her  mind  dwell  on  it— somehow  she  felt  he 
would  not  like  it.  The  episode  did  not  belong  to 
the  surface  of  things,  it  belonged  to  the  hidden  life 
of  a  secret  man,  a  holy,  hopeless  thing,  to  be 
guarded  from  the  prying  even  of  reverent  thoughts. 
She  knew  that  though  she  and  Nigel  might  often 
talk  together  of  her  sorrow,  they  would  never  talk 
of  his. 

He  was  playing  a  strange  tune  that  pattered  on 
the  silence  like  rain.  It  was  the  song  of  the  man 
who  has  dreamed  of  love,  who  has  wakened  at  last 
to  find  it  only  a  dream,  and  that  he  lies  with  empty 
arms  on  a  hard  bed — and  then  suddenly  realises 
that  he  has  before  him  that  which  is  sweeter  than 
sleep  and  dreams — the  joy  of  the  day's  work.  He 
played  the  Prelude  of  the  Day's  Work,  through 
which  would  trill  the  magic  memory  of  love — love, 
which  is  so  much  sweeter  in  memory  and  in  dream 
than  in  realisation. 

At  last  he  put  aside  his  violin,  and  going  over 
to  Janey,  he  knelt  down  by  her  and  kissed  her  tired 
face. 

"Oh,  Nigel  .  .  .  Nigel!" 


A  TOAST  305 

"  You'll  come  with  me  to  London,  and  help  me 
in  my  new  life?  " 

"  I  want  a  new  life  too." 

"  We'll  start  one  together." 

"  And — and  you'll  play  the  devil  out  of  me  when 
he  comes  ?  " 

"  Always — and  we  won't  have  any  secrets  from 
each  other,  Janey." 

She  smiled  faintly.  Her  brother  always  amused 
her  when  he  spoke  of  secrets. 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes.  The  moon 
was  leaving  the  window,  climbing  high  among  the 
stars.  A  little  wind  began  to  flutter  round  Sparrow 
Hall,  whispering  and  throbbing. 

"  I'm  tired,"  said  Janey. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you'll  dream  of  the  life  you  and  I  are 
going  to  live  together — of  success  for  me,  and 
happiness  for  you." 

She  rose  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"  Good-night,  lad." 

"  Good-night.  I  think  I'm  going  to  bed  too.  I 
think  I  can  sleep  to-night.  But  before  we  go  we 
must  drink  a  toast,  Janey." 

"A  toast!— to  whom?" 

"  To — to  two  people  who  we  thought  were  going 
to  make  you  and  me  happy — but  are  going  to  make 
each  other  happy  instead." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She  and  her 
brother  stood  facing  each  other  in  the  strange  freak 
of  lamplight  and  moonlight.  Then  she  said — 

"  Yes.  We  must  want  them  to  be  happy,  Nigel." 
20 


306  THE  THREE  FURLONGERS 

He  turned  to  the  uncleared  supper-table  and 
poured  out  some  of  the  red  wine  that  Janey  drank 
in  these  days  of  her  weakness. 

"  We'll  drink  to  their  happiness,  old  sister.  We 
won't  go  whining  and  grudging  because  it  isn't 
ours.  Besides,  we're  going  to  have  it  some  day — 
we'll  make  a  new  lot  of  our  own." 

"  Yes,  Nigel  " — Janey's  eyes  had  kindled — 
"  we're  not  going  to  grudge  them  what  they've  got, 
or  be  envious  and  mean." 

They  faced  each  other  across  the  table.  The 
wind  gave  a  sudden  little  sigh  round  Sparrow  Hall 
— blustered — and  was  still. 

"  A  toast ! "  cried  Nigel,  lifting  his  glass,  "  a 
toast ! — To  those  who've  got  what  we  have  lost." 

THE  END 


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